


VIII Strength

by captive_hetalian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fundementalist Christianity, Homophobia, Human Names Used, M/M, Mutual Pining, Religious Conflict, Slow Burn, Transphobia, eventually, i'm making this slow burn, repost, slower than a snail moving uphill in molasses in January
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 90,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captive_hetalian/pseuds/captive_hetalian
Summary: [Repost. Originally on my old account on here. I changed my mind and decided I wanted to continue, since writing chapters for this fic is free therapy for me.]
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia), Belgium/Ukraine (Hetalia), Canada/Prussia (Hetalia), Denmark/Female Norway (Hetalia), Female England/Female France (Hetalia), Secondary:
Kudos: 32





	1. Indigo Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place at the end of 2017. For anyone that's read what I posted of this before, I have made some changes but nothing major. Just some added details, fixed class scheduling issues I found through editing, and Alfred's tattoo changed slightly.

_ “Life demands honesty, the ability to face, admit, and express oneself.” ~ Starhawk _

“ _My lover’s got humor / He’s the giggle at a funeral / Knows everybody’s disapproval / I should’ve worshipped him sooner_ …,” Alfred sang along with the radio.

He hadn’t heard this song in so long, had just about forgotten its existence since it first came out and he’d listen to it on loop for days on end. And just like then, he switched the pronouns as he sang now while sweeping up the store before closing.

It was the only station right now that played something other than Christmas music. Alfred would usually play a CD (Erutan or Damh the Bard during the day and Moonsorrow or Inkubus Sukkubus after dark), but the volume dial was busted for the CD player somehow, so it would switch from dead quiet to bursting eardrums whenever someone so much as squinted at it.

Matthew or Gilbert, husbands and the store’s co-owners, was going to have to get that fixed sometime soon—or admit defeat and buy a new player. Until then, though, Alfred and the customers would have to make do with the alternative rock station and its occasional hiccups of static.

“Not the best cover I’ve heard, but not too horrid.”

Alfred froze in the middle of singing the song’s chorus and looked up at the door. He hadn’t heard the bells over the door jingle, and blood rushed to his cheeks. The long, sweeping bangs of his purple-dyed undercut didn’t help cover his blush, and the tips of his ears felt hot despite the blast of cold air from outside.

Tall, fair, and handsome stood in the doorway, holding a memo pad in one hand. The other was in the pocket of his calf-length, beige coat. The tails of his long, pale scarf hung over his back, a sprig of holly pinned to the cloth, just beneath his chin.

The customer smiled at Alfred’s flustered expression, and when he cocked his head, long, silvery-blond bangs slid over his eyes, which were a deep, indigo blue that looked almost purple under the fluorescent lighting.

“Um, uh, um—” Alfred cleared his throat and straightened, knuckles white as he clutched the broom’s handle. “Merry meet.” He worried his smile made him look deranged and tried to cool down, suddenly angry at this guy for making him feel like an idiot. “Do you need anything?”

He internally flinched at the bite in his tone, but he only grew angrier when it made the customer look more amused.

“I was hoping you might have these herbs. My sister wants to make some kind of incense blend.” The customer held up the memo pad as he walked towards Alfred. “I couldn’t find any at the grocery store, so my sister suggested coming here.”

Swallowing, Alfred leaned the broom against the bookcase of semi-precious stones, crystal wands, and pendulums hanging from a grate that had replaced the topmost shelf.

Face losing its flush, Alfred took the pad from the customer, trying and failing to ignore the fact that Indigo Eyes was maybe a half-foot taller than him— _Damn him_. He toyed with his Bastet necklace— a winged cat wearing an ankh collar—with his free hand, needing to keep both his hands busy.

It didn’t take long for Alfred to notice that the list was for one of Scott Cunningham’s Yule incense recipes—frankincense, juniper berries, cedar, and pine needles. Alfred used this same one himself for most personal Winter Solstice rituals.

“This way.” Alfred tried for a smile again and pushed down on his anger. He knew it was irrational, but he didn’t like being caught off-guard.

He led the customer to the back room’s antechamber, which was where the jars of herbs and bottles of essential oils and pre-made ointments were kept. A curtain separated it from the main store area, and the window in the back room was positioned so that the antechamber didn’t see much sunlight during the day. This helped lengthen the shelf life of everything in the little room.

Indigo Eyes followed, eyeing the tattoo sleeve on Alfred’s right arm.

The sleeve had started with just the anti-possession pentagram from Supernatural just below his wrist on the underside of his forearm, but after years of collecting, a collage of black ink soon stretched its way up to the Celtic knot raven tattoo on the right side of his upper back. A pentacle with the four elements’ alchemical symbols at the lower and side points covered his right shoulder, a curved line of different moon phases running along the top of the pentacle. The Strength card from the Rider-Waite Tarot deck marked his upper arm, and there was a line of pentacles, shaded circles, triskelions, and a symbol for Awen, done to look like prayer beads looping around his forearm once, just below the elbow. The beads ran down the top of his arm, the Awen symbol resting on the back of his hand.

Alfred was still spitballing ideas for what to add to the sleeve with his artist, torn between an athame inside a chalice and a luna moth with the triple-moon above it.

He could already feel Indigo Eyes’s question before it was uttered.

“Do you really believe in all this?” Indigo Eyes was looking at a laminated paper tacked to the side of one of the shelves holding jars of herbs.

It was a disclaimer saying that the store did not employ doctors and that holistic remedies should not replace medical attention. It also said customers had to do their own research, as none of the employees were licensed to give medical advice.

They couldn’t even suggest chamomile if a customer wanted tea to help with sleep. It was a precaution, which annoyed some but was understandable, especially when they started getting visits from anti-vaxx moms, who thought “pagan” was shorthand for “people who think essential oils and good vibes cure cancer.”

Those interactions always ended with the Karens shouting, “Well I don’t need help from devil-worshipers anyway! Hope you enjoy your stays in Hell!”

Matthew and Gilbert had needed to jump through flaming hoops just to open the store, and police hadn’t helped much when someone threw a rock through the window a week after opening. Arthur and Vash had tried to push the issue, but they’d had to stop to avoid scrutiny and derision from their fellow officers.

Just a day in the life of gay pagan store-owners in Podunk, Mississippi.

“All of it?” Alfred shrugged. “I’m pretty open to most anything, even if it's not in my actual practice. I try to keep a healthy dose of skepticism, but I don’t shut anything down immediately at the same time, if that makes sense.”

Indigo Eyes hummed non-committedly.

“You said this is for your sister?” he asked, and Indigo Eyes nodded. “She’d probably talk your ear off about it if you ask.”

Another non-committal hum, and they lapsed into awkward silence. Alfred felt his cheeks and the tips of his ears warm again as he bagged the last thing on the list. He labelled the bags with Sharpie, a handful of black ones in a tin by the jar of red brick dust.

“This it?” Alfred asked as he capped the pen. His anger was bubbling again.

He had grown used to people giving his and his family’s beliefs the side-eye, but he’d hoped Tall, Fair, and Handsome had been shopping for himself, not reluctantly getting supplies for someone else.

He really needed to get over his weakness for tall guys. He, himself, was only an inch under six feet, so most of his boyfriends had been his height or shorter. The silvery-haired giant next to him was like the Gods crafting someone straight from Alfred’s “dream guy” list, and it wasn’t fair!

“Um….” Indigo Eyes’s earlier smugness finally melted away, and hope pinged through Alfred’s heart. “Our mom and her dad aren’t really happy with Nat looking into witchcraft,” he confided, frowning.

Alfred had Wiccan parents and had never felt the need to hide his religion, practice, or sexuality, but he could sympathize. It was more common than not for customers to be in the broom closet. There were even cubbies upstairs for some customers to keep some of their items such as occult books, in case having them found at home could put them in danger.

It took a moment for Alfred to realize Indigo Eyes had said “Our mom and her dad.” They were half-siblings, then, so depending on the home situation, they might not even live in the same house. If they didn’t, then Nat was alone with unaccepting parents, which had to suck. When Alfred had first realized he was trans, it had been Matthew he first came out to, and Matthew had been right there when Alfred told their moms.

He wasn’t about to give Matthew a big head about it, but if not for him, Alfred probably wouldn’t have had the courage to do even half of the things he’d done, even apply to college. Alfred couldn’t imagine having had to grow up without him around.

“I’d like to get her something to show I support her.” Indigo Eyes murmured it more than said it. “Even if I don’t really… get… any of this.”

“Sure thing.” Flush ebbing away, Alfred’s smile came easier. “Do you think she’d prefer books or stuff for her altar? Do you know if she’s following a specific path? That’ll make looking for something easier. We also offer to keep things here, in case parents or guardians have a habit of searching through your room. Unfortunately, if she’s a minor, we can’t keep anything for her. If we’re caught ‘indoctrinating’ other people’s kids, we can potentially get into legal trouble, depending on how the parents want to spin the story, and the parents are more likely to be believed.”

Indigo Eyes averted eye-contact and pursed mouth told Alfred plenty, and he hummed a noise he hoped was assuring.

“She’s seventeen,” he murmured. “She doesn’t keep a lot, anyway, and they’ve never searched her room that I’ve heard of. They trust her, mostly.”

Nodding, Alfred said, “Can’t go wrong with Lenormand or Oracle cards, and those are easier to pass off as something more ‘benign’ than Tarot, as long as it’s a deck without a lot of occult symbols in the art. Runes stones are usually easier to hide, too, or Ogham staves if she prefers Celtic over Nordic. We also have a few divination ‘coin’ sets with more secular-ish symbols that don’t lean into one region or folklore over another.” He picked up the little baggies of herbs, handing them over when Indigo Eyes held out his hands. “Let’s put these by the cash register, and I’ll look with you.”

“Thanks.” The word sounded like it had been dragged out of the customer.

He wasn’t entirely accepting either, then, but he was trying to learn—if only for his sister. That was a hard first step, and Alfred hoped Nat found herself in a better situation soon. Sometimes unaccepting family members educated themselves and became more tolerant, so Alfred hoped this would be the case for her.

The divination tools (except for pendulums) were kept in a room adjacent to the main shopping area, and one of the fluorescent lights needed to be changed. The walls were deep purple, and the chest-high shelves of card decks, bags of runes, staves, wooden coins, and dice were nestled between a wall and one of the massive bookcases. The wall had a wide window that looked out over the garden between the shop and nearby woods.

“Our mermaid decks are pretty popular right now,” Alfred offered. “Or the Gilded Reverie Lenormand deck before it’s sold out again. We have dice, too, but I assumed your and Nat’s mom and her dad are Baptists, so dice are about as welcome as pentacles.” He chuckled, then coughed when it wasn’t returned. “Then, t-the same can be said for cards. Do you know if she reads any of these already?”

Indigo Eyes scowled at him, like he didn’t like being questioned, but the look was wiped away quickly as he flinched. He broke eye-contact, red dusting his cheeks. “She has a deck of these big Oracle cards. Looks like that one.”

He pointed at the _Oracle of Shadows and Light_ by Cavendish and Becket-Griffith. The pop surrealist art style was pretty popular right now, especially with Becket-Griffith’s fairy tale and gothic inspirations. Alfred was actually surprised they even still had any of her decks; they usually flew off the shelves soon as Gilbert marked them down in inventory.

“Looks like we have one other deck by the same artist, this one with vampires. Or if you want to get her Tarot cards, there’s the Nicoletta-Ceccoli deck.” Alfred grabbed two from one of the lower shelves. “The art style has a similar-ish feel. It’s usually described as having a ‘dark, dreamy quality.’” He handed the box over for Indigo Eyes to look over. “The Lenormand deck I mentioned is also well-liked, especially by people that like that kind of art, though it feels… lighter, I guess. The colors are more saturated, and there isn’t a dark or nightmare-ish feel like that Tarot deck or the Oracle deck I mentioned.”

The customer’s brow furrowed as he looked at the decks, setting one down to open the box of the other and look through the individual cards. He then looked through the runes, Alfred explaining which was which.

“If you’re still not sure, you can always come back after getting a better idea of what she’d want,” Alfred said, straightening some of the decks.

“This will be fine.” Indigo Eyes put the runes he was looking at back in the draw-string bag.

He picked the purple bag back up, which held wooden coins with images of cauldrons, besoms, and chalices burned onto them. Embroidered onto the bag was a Tree of Life in silver thread. Alfred opened one of the drawers, digging out the booklet that went with that specific set.

Indigo Eyes looked skittish, like he didn’t really want to stay here much longer or come back.

“It’s getting late,” he said.

Checking his phone after he pulled out the correct booklet, Alfred grunted in agreement. He was supposed to have closed up five minutes ago.

Indigo Eyes was quiet, expression icy enough to make Alfred shiver as he rang up the items, putting the booklet of reading guidelines into the drawstring bag. Everything had to be punched in by hand, and while he had the codes for most of them memorized by now, he got two wrong and had to cancel them out and start again. When he did, the customer’s expression grew more annoyed, all the playfulness from earlier gone. It made Alfred more nervous, but he finally got everything punched in right. He almost sighed with relief as the receipt printer screamed out the paper.

“Thank you.” Indigo Eyes’s tone was curt, but when he spotted the box next to the register, his expression softened.

The box asked for donations to the Trevor Project. They’d raised a little over $300 since Thanksgiving, and Matthew was going to donate all they’d collected after New Year’s.

Without a word, Indigo Eyes stuffed his change into the box along with an extra five dollars. He finally met Alfred’s eyes again and tried for a smile. He looked like he was about to make a comment when he spotted something behind Alfred.

“Open circle?” he asked as he took the paper bag from Alfred.

Smiling, Alfred nodded. “Mattie and Gilbert, the owners, host a few open circles every year, usually on the solstices. It’s pretty generic, so people of any religion can participate. Sometimes even people from the local churches come, and not just to protest against us existing.”

Indigo Eyes actually laughed, and Alfred mentally gave himself a point.

“There’s gonna be free food, too, if that’s tempting,” Alfred added, then kicked himself. _Nice, Bonnefoy. Could you be any more obvious? You don’t even know the dude’s name yet!_

He wanted to ask, but after the time they’d spent in the store, Alfred didn’t know how to ask. He wished he’d paid with a credit card instead of cash, so he’d be able to read the name on the receipt. Whatever happened to the stereotype that no one in their generation carried cash anymore?!

“Will you be singing there?” Indigo eyes asked as he took a cellphone out of his coat pocket.

Alfred moved aside, so Indigo Eyes could take a picture of the poster. “No.”

“Then I’ll consider attending.” Indigo Eyes put his cell phone away and smiled when Alfred flushed again.

He walked out without another word, and Alfred locked the door and flipped over the sign behind him.

Bastard.

 _Hot bastard_ , Alfred’s brain was quick to remind him.

That was worse. His last boyfriend had been a hot bastard, and that relationship made Alfred wish he believed in Hell, just so he could picture Antonio burning in it.

Alfred would probably be better off if Indigo Eyes just stayed Indigo Eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this is true for all Baptists, but for Southern Baptists at least, they're pretty against gambling, to the point that you're not allowed to use dice or playing cards.
> 
> (In Girl Scouts, when my troop was tasked with making a game board for younger girls (either Daisies or Brownies; I forget), we had to put in a spinner instead of dice, so that any Baptist girls would still be allowed to play, because some parents are just that strict that you can't use dice in *any* context, not just where gambling is concerned.)


	2. Yule Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also changed the cat's name from Castiel to Catsiel, because Alfred would.

_ "Any and all religions are real, the genuine article, to their practitioners. There can never be one religion, prophet, or savior that will satisfy all six billion humans. Each of us must find our ideal way to attune with deity." ~ Scott Cunningham _

Probably the best part of Yule’s proximity to Christmas was that Alfred didn’t have classes getting in the way of celebrations. Finals hadn’t been as hellish as feared, and the spring semester didn’t start until a week after New Year’s.

Grades wouldn’t be posted until later this week, and Alfred tried to keep his mind off that as he sipped his cup of coffee at the counter. He’d just run a couple laps around the neighborhood, sweat-dampened hoodie discarded and wearing only his sports bra. His middle and hips still held onto Halloween party sweets and Thanksgiving fourth helpings, which he also tried not to worry about.

Today was the open Yule circle at the shop, and Alfred needed to be there before eleven to help with setup.

“Merry Yule, Maman!” Alfred sang as Marianne Bonnefoy entered the kitchen, cracking her back after a loud yawn. “Late night?”

The bun Marianne had put her brown-gold hair in had disassembled itself overnight, the paintbrushes and pencils that she’d stuck into it now littering the floor like Hansel’s and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. Her eyes looked more grey than blue due to the dark half-moons stamped beneath them, and her pink cat eye glasses looked ready to slide right off the tip of her nose.

Mumbling something like agreement, Marianne went straight to the coffee, pouring it into a bowl instead of a mug.

Alfred was about to say something when his mom poured Cheerios into the bowl of coffee; his sudden laughter made her jump and send a spray of cereal across the granite counter and white-and-black tile floor.

“Are you teasing your mum?” Alice demanded playfully as she sauntered into the kitchen, knotting her festive, red tie. Her short, dark blond hair was combed away from her slender face, and she kissed her wife on the cheek as she tried to avoid stepping on any cereal. “Good evening, love. We missed you at Matthew’s and Gilbert’s circle.”

More cereal sprayed as Marianne whipped around to look at the clock over the stove—it was barely eight in the morning.

“You bitch!” Marianne tried to scream, but her snort of laughter ruined it. She hit Alice with the near-empty Cheerios box and set it down before sighing when she saw her breakfast bowl. “I’ll just add some cream and sugar. I’m not wasting more cereal. And it’s a sin to waste coffee.”

Alice kissed her wife again, this time on the lips. “The only sin we believe in. I love you.”

“Mm-hmm.” Marianne paid back the kiss, though and retrieved the carton of half-and-half and tin of sugar. “Alfred, why were you late coming in last night?”

Leave it to Marianne Bonnefoy to know exactly how long it took Alfred to drive home from the shop.

“Customer came in right before closing,” Alfred said. “Then I had to finish cleaning up. Someone moved around the god statues again.”

The statuettes were in the back room past the herbs, and while they were for shrines and altars, sometimes customers moved them around like action figures. Alfred had to admit that Bast sitting in one of the wooden boxes had been pretty funny.

“Oh, was he attractive?” Marianne asked, smirking in triumph when Alfred blushed. The smirk fell when she yawned again, and she took her coffee’d cereal to the table.

“Remember to get tested, and make sure he is too,” said Alice as she got the broom and swept the spilled Cheerios against the wall to be picked up later. “No such thing as too safe.”

“Mam!” Alfred crowed, frowning when Marianne snorted, still too tired to laugh fully.

“I hope you’re showering before you leave,” Alice said to her son as she poured coffee into her sugar-filled mug. As heat spread over the blue ceramic, a TARDIS appeared, painted to resemble a Van Gogh piece. “And has your brother said anything else about Peter?”

“I hope he gets to live with them soon,” Marianne sighed into her breakfast.

Matthew and Gilbert had been talking with the adoption agency last night. Mississippi’s ban on same-sex couples adopting was lifted last year, but there were social workers that still tried to make things hard as possible, probably hoping the parents would just give up. Matthew and Gilbert weren’t giving up, though.

“Haven’t heard anything yet,” Alfred sighed and finished his coffee.

Alice took her coffee to the table and went to grab a protein bar from the pantry. “Well, then we’ll just have to send our intentions up during our circles today.”

Along with the open circle, Alice and Marianne would be celebrating Yule with their coven, which met in Biloxi, a half-hour east of Hetaville. Matthew and Gilbert would also meet with their small-but-growing coven at the shop again tonight for a more intimate ritual to celebrate today’s Sabbat, and Alfred, who was solitary, would celebrate alone in the house.

As if sensing his thoughts, Catsiel meowed from behind the back door, begging to be let in.

 _Well, not totally alone_ , Alfred thought, washing out his mug before going to let the lump of white-and-brown fluff inside.

* * *

Five minutes before the circle would be cast, and there was still no sign of Indigo Eyes.

“Looking for someone?”

Alfred jumped, nearly dropping his wand. Gilbert laughed, patting Alfred on the back. He wore long, green robes, and a garland of holly leaves and berries decorated his silver hair. His pale blue eyes looked red when the light hit them just right, which helped with his Holly King attire.

“Just Chun-Yan and the others,” Alfred replied quickly, hoping he wasn’t blushing again—or that Marianne hadn’t told Gilbert and Matthew about the attractive mystery customer last night. “Are we going with traditional directions this year?”

Traditionally (for Gardnerian-bent Wiccans), Air was petitioned to in the east, Fire in the south, Water in the west, and Earth in the north. Matthew and Gilbert belonged to a more eclectic coven, though, which tended to work more off the cuff and experiment with different ways of performing rituals and spell work.

Chun-Yan, the high priestess of Marianne’s and Alice’s coven, called them the Patchwork Coven as a joke when they first formed, and they had ended up adopting the name. Matthew liked the name so much he’d even used it to name the shop: Patchwork Spirit. It fit them well.

Gilbert nodded. “Yep. I’d rather avoid complaints again this year.”

Sometimes people complained about the unorthodoxy of the open circles’ calling of the directions—ironically usually by those that had become pagan to escape the strict dogma of whatever religion they’d been raised in.

“Who’s killing you this year?” Alfred touched one of Gilbert’s holly leaves with his wand. “And is Lud back home from his Yankee school?”

Gilbert crossed his arms, switching to Dad Mode complete with raised eyebrows and disappointed look. “Maybe if you’d actually _tried_ on your ACT and took those AP exams, you’d be in NYU with him.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred grumbled, scowling when Gilbert ruffled his hair, smiling again.

Social services better give him and Matthew Peter soon. Alfred already had one set of parents and their coven watching him; he didn’t need another set offering unsolicited lectures about the potential he was supposedly wasting.

So he went to the local college instead of signing over his soul for student loans to attend an out-of-state school. So what?

Gilbert continued, “Lud decided to stay in New York during the holidays. He got a seasonal job at some retail store. I asked Carlos to play the Oak King, and he seems a little too happy about killing me.” He looked over towards the shop, where Carlos must be changing into his costume.

Carlos was Matthew’s ex-boyfriend. They’d parted on good terms, and while he and Gilbert were civil to each other, they weren’t one-another’s biggest fan. The problem was that they were both too different and too alike, so they tended to come together like twin blades, sending out a shower of sparks.

Gilbert excused himself to greet new-comers, more people pouring into the large yard behind the shop.

Alfred helped mark the cardinal points, looking around every so often for Indigo Eyes. He saw plenty of familiar faces, people striking up conversations or just exchanging short hellos before moving onto the next person, and soon, it was time to call the quarters.

Indigo Eyes still not in view, and Alfred huffed, mentally calling himself an idiot. Of course Indigo Eyes wouldn’t have come. He hadn’t exactly looked excited about being in the shop, even if he was trying to support his half-sister.

“The cute one still not here?” Chun-Yan asked, seeming to appear out of nowhere.

She didn’t even stand at Alfred’s shoulder, but she was imposing nonetheless. Her long hair was more silver than black, and there were laugh lines at the corners of her dark brown eyes and around her pink mouth. She was dressed in a long, loose blue dress, the bell-shaped sleeves covering her hands. She’d always felt like a grandmother, loving and doting but scary and stern when deserved.

Blushing, Alfred couldn’t meet her eyes, and she laughed.

“If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, but next time, try asking for a phone number.” Chun-Yan’s eyes danced. “Fate can’t do all the work itself, now.”

“Yes, ma’am…,” Alfred grumbled, and Chun-Yan laughed again as she headed towards the cauldron of water marking the west point of the circle.

Alfred stood by the tiki torch marking the southern point, and he smiled at Francis—high priest of Gilbert’s and Matthew’s coven—who stood by the stool holding a bowl of incense at the eastern point. Michelle, a Kemetic reconstructionist and Patchwork Spirit regular, ran over to the bowl of rocks and soil at the northern point. Locks of dark brown, wavy curls fell from the loose bun atop her head, and she wore a long, brown duster over a short green dress and checkered tights. 

She waved excitedly at Alfred, who waved back, and Matthew called all the guests. His wavy, pale blond hair was in a bun at the top of his neck, long bangs he’d been growing out framing his narrow, freckled face. He smiled ear to ear, and his usually soft voice carried well as he started directing everyone to form a circle around Alfred, Michelle, Chun-Yan, and Francis.

Everyone linked hands, and once more, Alfred looked around. Still no Indigo Eyes, but he felt someone watching him.

Looking over at the people between Francis and Michelle, Alfred saw two women, the taller one motioning towards Alfred as she bent to whisper in the other woman’s ear.

The taller woman was well-endowed, and her board-straight, wheat blond hair was cut in a practical bob an inch above her shoulders. Bobby pins kept her bangs out of her round face, which was flushed from the cold. She smiled, but there was something in it that said it was only the surface of the story.

The shorter woman looked familiar. Her hair fell past her shoulders in messy, honey-colored waves, kept back by a green ribbon that matched her leggings. Her smile looked more genuine, and she let go of the taller woman’s hand for a moment to wave when she saw Alfred watching them.

Trying for a smile, Alfred waved back before looking at Matthew again.

Was one of them related to Indigo Eyes? Neither could be Nat. She was seventeen, and both of those women looked to be closer to thirty.

“Welcome to Patchwork Spirit’s third annual Yule open circle!” Matthew declared, and there were claps and cheers from the returnees. “We will call the quarters and create a sacred space for us to let go and celebrate the winter solstice.” He turned slowly as he spoke to meet everyone’s eyes. He wore his contacts today, blue eyes bright. “Today is when the day is shortest, but gradually, they will grow longer. As daylight grows, so does our hope and our goals. Today is a day to set goals to work towards. As we cast the circle, think of a goal you’d like to accomplish in the coming year. Now, let us begin.”

He joined Gilbert behind Francis, holding his and another man’s hand as Francis cleared his throat. He wore a yellow robe, a white sash tied over his round belly and the _V_ of the robe deep enough to show hair on his chest.

Turning towards the people but looking up, Francis traced a pentagram into the air as a breeze arrived, toying with his long, honey-blond curls. “I hail to the east and Guardian of Air…”

When he was done, Alfred was next, tracing a pentagram in the air as Francis had as he invited the Guardian of Fire to join the circle. He tried not to stand too close to the tiki torch, not wanting a repeat of last year.

Chun-Yan hailed to the west, hands waving as she spoke. She and Francis sometimes seemed to be in competition of which one of them could call to the spirits most dramatically, and it looked like she was winning this year.

Michelle’s call to the north was short in comparison. She didn’t cast circles in her usual practice, and it sounded like she was quoting a “Wiccapedia” site, which made Alfred smile.

Once she was done, Matthew and Gilbert called out in unison, “Spirit that fills us, lifts us up and aids us in seeing our goals into fruition when we leave this circle.”

The first time they held a circle, Matthew and Gilbert had tried to have everyone twist out of the circle, but the tangle of limbs and a few guests being in wheelchairs had made that too difficult. Now, they counted to three, and everyone let go of one-another and threw their hands into the air.

Matthew encouraged everyone to eat and thanked those that brought food, and he said Gilbert and Carlos would perform the fight between the Holly King and Oak King in ten minutes.

Smiling and feeling energized, Alfred turned to where the two women he noticed earlier had been standing, but they weren’t there. He looked around as people made their way to the food tables by the shop’s herb garden, but the women were gone.

“I’m sure you’ll see him again,” Alice said, looping one arm through Alfred’s and leading him to the food line. “Try not to worry about it.”

“Uh, yeah.” Alfred tried for a laugh. “By any chance, did you know those—”

“Oh, good Gods,” Alice groused, looking towards the small parking lot beside Patchwork Spirit. “I thought they’d quit!”

The crowd was smaller than three years ago, but the _THERE IS ONLY ONE GOD_ , _TURN FROM SATAN,_ and _EXODUS 22:18_ signs and ugly shouting left no room for mistake: They were protesters.


	3. Protesters

_ “ If we pursue a spiritual path in depth, then it changes who and what we are. There is no turning back. We can only move forward.” ~ Vivianne Crowley _

Alice headed towards the protesters with Matthew, Gilbert, Francis, and Chun-Yan, hoping to run interference and calm them down.

With Alice being there, though, she may need the calming down. She’d grown up in a church similar to the protesters’ back when she lived in Mountsorrel, Leicestershire. Her parents had threatened to stop giving her money when they found her articles stressing the importance of contraception and abortion rights.

Her parents had cut off communication entirely when she moved to the states and joined an eco-feminist coven in Oklahoma. They didn’t know she’d moved to Mississippi or that she’d gotten handfasted and had kids.

Matthew held Gilbert back when he stepped closer to shout something. Chun-Yan and Francis moved their hands like they were trying to placate the protesters, but they were only rewarded by more shouts and points as they were insulted.

“REPENT!” several protesters screamed in unison.

“Take a page from your holy book and go pray in a closet!” Gilbert snarled back.

At the same time, Dr. Romano Vargas, a Catholic (and psychology professor at the college) that had been joining the open circles since Midsummer last year, stomped over towards the protesters as his wife, Amelia, told him to calm down.

“Don’t you have _Harry Potter_ books to burn? Get lost!” he yelled, then moved so Amelia’s hand was no longer on his shoulder. “We can’t just let them push people around, Amy!”

“It’s not letting them push people around,” said Amelia, holding her baby like she was trying to shield him from the arguing with her arms. “It’s about keeping the peace!”

“Standing down isn’t keeping peace,” Romano argued, long bangs falling over his hazel-green eyes. “Saying nothing just tells them they can spew their hate without consequence!”

“Romano, please—” Amelia jerked away from one of the protesters reaching for her child. “DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH MY BABY!”

At the same time, Romano roared, “GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS AWAY FROM MY SON!”

“Everyone calm down!” Francis pleaded as baby Sebastian started crying.

At the same time, the protester that had reached for Amelia’s and Romano’s baby cried, “KEEPING A CHILD CHAINED TO SATAN IS ABUSE! YOU DON’T DESERVE—”

“ _Excuse_ me?!” Romano looked ready to punch him.

Francis and Chun-Yan held Romano and Amelia back, telling them to go to the food tables and to try and relax.

Huffing, the husband and wife did as told, and Alfred sighed, looking around. More people were leaving, and he apologized for what was happening.

“It’s not your fault,” said Olivia as she pulled the hood of her oversized hoodie over her mound of thick, red curls, shadowing her cherubic face. She was a police officer in Biloxi and hoped to make detective soon; she didn’t want to risk anyone on the force finding out she was pagan. “It’s _them_.”

Her usually-sweet voice turned bitter; her hazel-blue eyes narrowed as she glanced back at the protesters.

Olivia tried for a smile, but it was strained. “Tell Chun-Yan to return my plate to me, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Hopefully enough people stay to eat up all my cheesecake bites.”

Seeing as the filling was made of ground cashews, coconut oil, and agave nectar, calling them cheesecake bites was a stretch, but they were still good.

“Even if it’s just me eating, I assure you they’ll be gone,” Alfred said with a smile.

Laughing, Olivia reached up to pat Alfred on the cheek. “I’ll make a vegan outta you yet.”

She left, and Alfred sighed again, looking around. Looked like the two mystery women had seen the protesters coming and ran off. If one of them had been Indigo Eyes’s half-sister, then did her parents go to that little church at the edge of town? That congregation and their Jonathon Edwards-wannabe preacher were the usual culprits for protests and general hate speech towards Patchwork Spirit and the people that worked and shopped there.

The Yule gathering’s size was diminishing as more protesters joined the group in the parking lot. Most of the nine-to-five employees were closeted and probably didn’t want to risk word getting back to their bosses, like Olivia. There were also college students that relied on parents for financial support, which would be lost if they were outed.

Carlos was gone, too, his robe and garland of oak leaves and acorns left behind on one of the chairs by the food tables. He was a teacher at the high school, and his job would be in jeopardy if it was found out he practiced witchcraft. He was nearly fired as it was, back when he’d been dating Matthew and a student found out and told her parents.

Due to the parking lot being relatively small, most had parked along the street past the line of trees behind the shop’s backyard, in front of the coffeehouse Romano’s brother, Feliciano, owned. Alfred could already hear engines starting as he slid his wand into the deep, inner pocket of his long coat. The sun felt warm on his skin, but the wind kept temperatures from rising above the mid-fifties.

“It _is_ our business!” one of the protesters shouted. “It’s bad enough you condemn yourselves to Satan, but you insist on putting children at risk!”

“The only risk our children are at,” Alice growled, Marianne quickly making her way to pull her away, “is that they’re loved unconditionally, which is much more than I can say for _your_ children!”

As she’d spoken, protesters yelled over her, and one looked ready to deck her before getting yanked back by another protester.

“If she wants to dress like a man, let her take a fucking punch like a man!” the protester that had been about to hit Alice screamed at his friend.

“Are you going to find a man to punch me?!” Alice challenged, arms spread wide. “’Cause all I see standing here is a _sniveling rat_!”

Alfred saw Romano and Amelia calming down their six-month-old son, and their four-year-old son was with Madeline and her daughter by the shop’s back door stoop. By them were Mathias and Linnea, and Linnea wore a smile as she took baby Sebastian from Amelia and bounced him in her arms.

“Thinking about getting one yourself?” Alfred joked, smiling wider when Mathias choked on the honey cake he was eating.

“I’d rather wait until at least grad school,” Linnea responded, smile playful as she looked at Mathias out of the corner of her eye.

Sebastian babbled as he grasped the gold and silver ribbons braided into Linnea’s hair. It was long enough that she sat on it when she wore it down, and her grown-out bangs fell to her chin and had to be pinned back with a clip the shape of a cross—which she usually wore on its side or inverted.

“Let’s put a pin in that until my I can afford Top Ramen, at least,” Mathias muttered, running a hand through his thick, dark blond hair—much as he could, anyway, with all the hair paste he used to keep it standing up in a style that made him look like he’d stuck a fork into a light socket.

Linnea had been dropping hints for a while she wanted to get married and talk about starting a family, and after Christmas, Alfred and Mathias were going to hopefully find some good sales, so Mathias could get Linnea a ring. He was still planning on how to propose, and Alfred and their friend Julchen had been messaging him ideas ever since he first brought it up.

“You two have plenty of time,” Romano laughed, taking Sebastian from Linnea when he started to get fussy. He and Linnea had to take extra time to get the baby to let go of Linnea’s hair. “We should be getting home now. It’s Sebastian’s naptime, and those bastards aren’t helping.”

“Language,” Amelia warned him as she pulled her wavy, red-dyed hair back into a ponytail, showing her dark blond roots. “Morgan’s always repeating you, and his teacher’s already sent him with notes twice last month about his potty mouth.”

Alfred snorted, waving and letting Romano know that he’d be in his abnormal psychology class come the spring semester.

“Don’t think you can slack off until the final like you did in my one-oh-one class!” Romano warned as he left with his family.

Morgan turned to wave at Juniper, Madeleine's daughter, as they left. Juniper waved back, yelling her good-bye before abruptly turning to her mom.

“My tummy’s talking,” she said as she grabbed her stomach, making Alfred laugh as Madeline smiled and re-braided her long, bleached-blond hair. “It wants cake!”

“We should have parked by Feliciano’s like everyone else,” said Mathias as he spooned some casserole onto his plate. “Now we’re stuck here ‘till—whoops, cops are here. About friggin time.”

“They aren’t going to send them home,” said Linnea after swallowing a bite of barbeque. Thick sauce marked her chin and cheek. “‘Freedom of speech.’ They’ll just have to stay on the sidewalk until they get bored or cold.”

Alfred grabbed one of the strawberry cheesecake bites, stuffing one whole into his mouth when Linnea made a face and took a Wet One from Madeline. Linnea hated coconut and said if the food wasn’t made with butter or meat, she wasn’t interested.

Swallowing, Alfred got another and bent down to hand it to Juniper. “Want one of Miss Olivia’s cakes, cricket?”

Juniper’s brown eyes lit up as she took it. “Yeah!”

Shaking her head, Madeline asked gently, “What do we say when someone gives us something?”

“Dank oo!” Ground pecan crust sprayed from Juniper’s mouth and rained on Alfred’s face, and Madeline sighed as Alfred laughed, taking a Wet One from her.

“Gotta learn magic words first before moving onto not talking with your mouth full,” he joked as he wiped his mouth and cheeks. He stuck out his tongue at Linnea when she asked when he was going to learn that second part.

“WE HAVE A RIGHT TO BE HERE!” It sounded like the protester that had threatened to hit Alice, and Alfred hoped he got punched.

“But not on private property,” said someone out front by the protesters.

It sounded like Arthur, when he forced an American accent. Having been called to the scene last time protesters were here, he’d barely been able to get them under control through the proclamations of him being a “damned Redcoat” and “one of those Socialist Europeans.”

Arthur was a local officer, and while he was also a witch and handfasted to Francis, he kept both things under wraps. As far as his colleagues knew, Arthur was too busy with his studies to worry about a relationship.

“The store owners have a right to practice their religion, and everyone here has a right to participate,” Arthur continued, the protesters quieting to listen to him. “You’re free to protest, but keep it on the sidewalk. Officer Zwingli and I will stay here to help keep the peace.”

“Now”—a new voice, Vash—“you on the sidewalk, and keep clear so those leaving can exit the parking lot. The rest of you, back to your party. Don’t like them being here? Pretend they don’t exist.”

“Wish they could give us the same respect,” someone muttered as they squeezed in to grab a honey cake.

There was grumbling from both sides, but everyone listened to the police officers. Alfred, eating another strawberry cheesecake, walked around the tables and the small crowd gathering to get food, and stopping when the protesters were in view. Their numbers were close to twenty now, not counting the little kids that had been given _Sinners burn in Hell_ and _One Nation under GOD_ signs.

Alfred’s violet bangs fell over his right eye. “What. The fuck. Is _he_ doing here?” he hissed, and Matthew quickly took his arm. “He _cannot_ be here.” His eyes were hot with tears, and he refused to blink, not wanting them to fall.

Mathias called over to him if everything was okay, but Alfred’s ears were ringing. He barely heard Matthew assure everyone that everything was okay and to enjoy the rest of the gathering.

“I’m afraid the fight between the Holly King and Oak King will be postponed, however,” Matthew said, pushing Alfred into the shop through the back door. “If anyone would like to volunteer to play the Oak King, please speak to Francis Bonnefoy or Gilbert Beilschmidt.” He brought Alfred into the small kitchen and sighed heavily. “Please calm—”

Alfred whirled around to meet his brother’s eyes. “Do _not_ tell me to calm down!” He kept his voice in a whisper-yell, conscious that the window above the sink was open.

“Al—”

“ _No_ .” Alfred couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, and tears escaped with the hard blink. “No. Fucking bitch-ass Antonio does _not_ get to be here!” He quickly wiped at the tears, angrier now because he was crying. “It’s bad enough we live in the same state.”

“He has to stay on the sidewalk—”

“I don’t care! I still know he’s there, just wanting to see the ‘freak show’ so he can laugh later with his little bitch-ass friends about this ex is still ‘playing boy-witch’—”

Matthew placed his hands on Alfred’s shoulders, silent until Alfred quieted.

After a long moment, the sound of chatter and children squealing in glee drifting in through the window, Matthew exhaled slowly. His grown-out bangs fell over his face and shadowed his eyes, which looked darker with the shadows hanging under them. He and Gilbert hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, worrying over whether they’d get to take Peter home and trying to keep Patchwork Spirit in the black.

 _He has enough to deal with without me whining about my asshole ex_ , Alfred thought, wiping his face again and calming down.

“I know it’s really hard for you to be around Antonio,” Matthew said in a soft voice, sounding more like a parent than a sibling. A side-effect of him being eleven years Alfred’s senior.

And he really didn’t know how hard being near Antonio was. He had an idea, but he didn’t know everything. Alfred hadn’t told him; he hadn’t told anyone, even Mathias or Julchen. It never felt bad enough, worthy of halting a conversation and making a big deal about it. The longer he’d kept it to himself, though, the more it had festered, but it had been so long since the relationship ended that he felt like it just wasn’t worth talking about.

“I can take you home,” Matthew suggested, sensing there was something more.

He didn’t pry, though. He never did. Sometimes Alfred wished people would, instead of just assuming he’d talk when he felt comfortable enough. He would never feel comfortable enough, no matter how big or small the issue was. He just wanted someone to take the time to make him, but he couldn’t say that either.

All he did was let the wounds fester away from view.

Looking at the linoleum floor, Alfred shook his head. “Letting him run me off is worse.” He sniffed and tried to smile. “Let’s go see who Gil roped in to kill him ‘till Midsummer.”

Smiling, Matthew straightened and motioned for Alfred to leave first. “Exactly. We can’t let anyone ruin our fun, right?”

“Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was too lazy to change either Belgium's or nyo!Prussia's names, so they're still Marie and Maria respectively, but they'll still mostly be referred to by their nicknames: Manon for Belgium and Julchen for nyo!Prussia. In Ivan's chapters, after he meets Julchen, she'll be referred to as Maria until she gives him permission to use her nickname, but I try to keep it easy to keep up with.


	4. Courage to Love

_ “Be brave enough to burn, and you’ll be brave enough to fly.” ~ SJ Tucker _

Catsiel purred loudly as he lay atop the dresser, blessedly not knocking over the statuette of Cerridwen or the offerings decorating Her shrine. The pile of fluff had knocked over one of the quartz drilled points on the altar setup next to the shrine, though. Of all the places in Alfred’s room, this shrine was Catsiel’s favorite place to sleep, but the Goddess didn’t seem to mind, so Alfred left it alone.

If Bast’s shrine was easier for Catsiel to reach, he’d probably hang out with Her instead. Her shrine was on the second-highest shelf of Alfred’s bookcase, though, since Alfred tried to keep shrines to Gods of different pantheons separate, and Catsiel wasn’t in the best age or shape for that kind of acrobatics anymore.

After today, being back in his room was a huge gift. Just seeing Antonio hanging in the back of the protesters’ crowd had ruined the circle for him, which just made Alfred hate him even more. He hated that Antonio had that much control over him over a year later. He hated himself for being unable to move past it. He hadn’t been able to focus on Gilbert and Mathias acting out the battle between the Holly and Oak Kings, he hadn’t been able to eat much, and even Michelle hadn’t been able to make him laugh.

All he’d thought about was Antonio, even after he’d left, whether out of boredom or having to go to work.

“Focus, dude,” Alfred told himself, pushing himself off his bed, which was still unmade.

He went to Spotify and chose his ritual playlist. He placed his phone on a shelf below Bast’s shrine in his tall bookcase, which sat between his desk and window on the wall opposite of his twin-sized bed. He then started cleaning as the first song faded, and as SJ Tucker’s “Witch’s Rune” began, Alfred sang along, easing as memories of Antonio were replaced by the one memory of Indigo Eyes.

“Focus,” Alfred told himself between verses.

Bed made and hardwood floor swept (from east to west), Alfred gathered what he needed. Catsiel watched him as his tail dusted Cerridwen's statuette.

Everything for the circle set up, Alfred started lighting the twelve tealights making the wide circle. He stayed inside the ring and made sure his robes wouldn’t accidentally brush over the flames.

“This circle shall be between the worlds, a sacred place of protection and truth.” He repeated this twice more while lighting the candles.

A fist-sized, cast iron cauldron on top of a heatproof dish sat at the northern edge of the circle, just inside the ring of tealights; Alfred poured in a handful of sea salt over the layer of blackened salt. He used scissors to hold the charcoal disk as he held a lighter up to it, keeping the flame going until the charcoal started to glow red. Alfred then dropped it in the cauldron and opened his bag of Yule incense, the smell reminding him of Indigo Eyes.

He dropped two pinches of loose incense over the charcoal disk, thick smoke immediately beginning to rise as a breeze pushed against Alfred’s Pokemon-themed curtains. He closed the bag and set it aside.

“I call to the Watchtower of the East,” Alfred intoned, eyes closing as he stood and held up the letter opener he used as an athame. “Guardian of Air, I invite you into this circle I cast to witness and protect the acts I will conduct in this sacred space.”

Moving to the south point, Alfred lit the red pillar candle and set down the lighter. He then stood and held up his athame, closing his eyes.

“I call to the Watchtower of the South. Guardian of Fire, I invite you to this circle I cast to witness and protect the acts I will conduct in this sacred space.”

He repeated the same evocation for the Watchtower of the West after pouring collected rainwater into a goblet he’d made in ceramics class last semester, and he repeated it for the Watchtower of the North while standing in front of a bowl (also made by him in ceramics) filled with soil from the back garden. He then walked around the ottoman in the center of his circle three times, moving desoil, or clockwise.

“Lord and Lady,” he said, feeling the energy in the room shift, “many-faceted halves of Source, I invite You into this circle, to celebrate the return of the sun with me with cakes and wine and bless me as I enter this new year.”

Kneeling before the ottoman and setting his athame aside, Alfred poured mulled wine from the kitchen from his goblet into two shot glasses. He then broke his barley cake in half, then one of the halves into quarters. He set each of the cake quarters onto the teacup saucers in front of the shot glasses, and he prayed to God and Goddess.

He asked Bast for judgment and to meet obstacles with necessary ferocity instead of letting himself get walked over yet again. He thanked Djehuty for helping him through the semester and Cerridwen for helping him see his spells into fruition.

Alfred then took a bite of his half of the cake and a sip of the wine. It was cool now, but it still left a warm feeling behind after a deep swallow.

Drumbeats and wordless chanting sounded from Alfred’s cell phone as he set the wine and cakes aside, not wanting them to fall off the ottoman as he worked his spell and made the luck charm Julchen had asked of him.

She couldn’t usually cast spells herself and had to keep her rituals to the bare minimum, so she’d asked Alfred to make a good luck charm for her today. He’d give it to her next time they were able to meet.

Inside the ottoman was a wooden box he used to keep charms from fading, black crushed velvet lining the inside and sigils burned around the sides and lid—there were still burn scars under his anti-possession tattoo, from trying to catch the burner pen when he dropped it several years ago.

Once he was finished with the good luck sachet, he set it into the box and closed it. Next, he got out a heatproof bowl and a sheet of paper he’d made out of old newspaper and dried herbs from his moms’ garden. He tore the paper into palm-sized pieces and got out a small jar of dragon blood ink and his quill, which was usually kept at the altar on his dresser.

He wrote five things to invite into his life, but when he started putting the spare pieces of paper away, he felt sudden pressure on his upper back, like he was being pushed down into a bow. He recognized it as what Bast did when She wanted Alfred’s attention.

“Am I forgetting something?” Alfred asked, then felt the pressure start to ease.

He looked through the papers, trying to think. Ahead of him, the Yule incense smoke was thinning, and Alfred thought he could hear Her. It was like an intrusive thought, but he knew it wasn’t from his mind.

The pressure finally went away altogether, and Alfred took a deep breath.

“Fine,” he huffed. “And I thought Djehuty was the one that liked kicking me in the ass.”

He wrote _Courage to love_ on the sixth piece of paper and started burning the papers one by one.

* * *

 _Maybe they’ll hit a patch of ice and end up in the ER_ , thought Ivan as he tried to read _Wise Blood_ by Flannery O’Connor.

Blinking, Ivan raked his fingers through his silver-blond hair and groaned. He leaned back over the arm of the two-seat couch, head hitting the lamp and nearly sending it topping to the floor. Swearing heavily under his breath, Ivan twisted around to catch it, ending up with slight carpet burn on his knees but a not-broken lamp.

Viktor, his step-dad, would have killed him if he broke anything. He didn’t even like having him here; he’d only agreed to let him stay here instead of a dorm or apartment at Anya’s insistence. She’d always had a soft spot for her son, so she said, but her love always felt more theatrical than genuine.

Ivan didn’t want to think horrible things about his mom and step-dad ending up in an ER or hurt in any way, but sometimes it just felt like it would be… easier. He knew it wouldn’t, and he felt horrible for even thinking about it.

Though, if he were to be truthful, he only felt bad for Natalya’s sake. She might deny it, but she loved her parents and was much closer to their mom than Ivan had ever been.

Natalya was in her room upstairs, while Ivan stayed downstairs, where he had a better vantage point of the driveway when Viktor and Anya returned from their protest at Patchwork Spirit.

Patchwork Spirit. The shop where Charmed One worked and sang at when he thought no one was listening.

Ivan’s friend Eduard had jokingly called the purple-haired guy Charmed One when Ivan told him about the shop. The name fit, but Ivan wished he knew his real name.

 _For what?_ part of him laughed as Ivan pulled himself back onto the couch. He’d lost his place in his book, but he couldn’t remember what he’d read anyway. _So you can shove him to the wolves like you did already?_

“Not my fault,” Ivan whispered.

He had been livid to find out Viktor had been going through his phone.

“If you’re going to live under my roof, then you’re going to live by my rules!” Viktor had defended, not sorry whatsoever for the invasion of privacy.

Natalya didn’t even have a cell phone, and a program had been installed on her laptop so that Viktor got her internet history sent to his email every week. Natalya used friends’ phones and computers and the computers at school for research of her witchcraft stuff. She’d never asked Ivan for help, warning him that Viktor would find out.

Ivan believed her now.

Charmed One and the shop owners would think Ivan had sent the protestors if they found out his step-dad was its deacon. He had taken over the small church at the edge of town after the deacon/pastor/whatever he called himself passed away last year.

His cell phone buzzed, alerting him to a text from Eduard. Since the phone invasion, Ivan had warned him that they needed to be careful about what they texted each other.

 _Meet with your advisor, yet? What she like?_ Eduard had texted. He knew Ivan had already spoken to her and didn’t care what she was like; he was really asking if Ivan had met with Charmed One again.

Lights streamed through the window next to the front door, and Ivan swore as he hurried to the staircase, texting Eduard that he was busy but would talk later.

The staircase led to a balcony that looked over the den. Natalya’s room was to the right, closest to the upstairs bathroom and with an extra room (once part of the attic) attached to it. That’s where she was, her bedroom door open but the attached room’s door closed. It didn’t have a lock (none of the rooms except the master bedroom had one), but Ivan knocked, letting Natalya know she needed to hurry up.

“They’re in the driveway,” he told her, long bangs falling into his eyes. “I’ll stall, but you’re supposed to be showered and ready for bed by now.”

Even though it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. Natalya would be graduating high school in a year, but Viktor and Anya still treated her like she was ten.

The front door opened, and Ivan nearly collapsed with relief when he heard Kateryna call up, “Relax! It’s just me and Manon!”

“I brought mead from your witch boy’s party!” Marie—or Manon to those close to her—sang. “Your parents will be at the church until eleven. We’re baby-sitting until then.”

“Thank the Gods,” Natalya said in the attached room.

It sounded like she’d been close to tears, and Ivan felt his heart crack.

“Take however long you need to…” Ivan searched for words but found none. “To do what you do.”

Natalya hiccupped; it sounded like a laugh bubbling up before she silenced it, probably by putting her hand over her mouth. She didn’t like showing emotion much, even to him.

As he turned to leave, Natalya called out, “Thank you. Really. Thank you.”

Smiling, Ivan nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see. “Sure.”

The staircase ended in the foyer, an archway leading into the dining room on the opposite wall. On either side of the archway were family pictures, the right one being Viktor’s and Anya’s wedding picture and the left one being one of them with baby Natalya. Most of the pictures of her were from when she was young, like they were in denial that she would be an adult—by law, anyway—come August.

Past the den on the left was the breakfast area, and Kateryna was bringing glasses to the oval table while Manon went through the pantry.

“Only Weight Watchers-approved peppermint cookies,” Ivan told her, and Manon groaned. “Anya’s on a health kick again.”

Kateryna muttered an insult about fad diets under her breath as she set the plastic cups down.

“You went to that circle thing?” Ivan asked as he sat down and helped himself to the large jar of mead.

It must be homemade. There was a label taped to the glass with a drawing on it—it looked like an anchor with letters written on the bottom part. Ivan thought he could make out an M, I, and R.

“Your boyfriend is cute!” Manon chirped as she brought over a pack of sugar-free cookies. Her golden hair was tied back with a green ribbon that matched her eyes, and her red bowtie was undone, shirt unbuttoned to show cleavage.

“Not my boyfriend,” Ivan deadpanned, bangs falling over his eyes again. He really needed to get a haircut, but he’d been busy trying to get everything in order. Some of his credits hadn’t transferred, so he had to take math and science (plus a lab) again.

Kateryna’s wheat blond hair was longer than Ivan was used to. Since deciding to follow Ivan back to Mississippi, she’d grown out her faux hawk, not wanting to deal with Viktor’s or Anya’s comments. She said Ivan was the only reason she was here, but her brother, Ivan’s father, was buried here. She might act like she’d accepted his death and was moving on, but Manon told him before that Kateryna still woke up crying some nights.

Each day she didn’t blame Ivan for Nicholas’s death made the guilt dig into him further. It wouldn’t be long before he’d been hollowed-out completely.

Manon shrugged and took the cup Kateryna offered. “Your eye-candy then. He and three other people invited element… spirits, I guess—‘calling the quarters,’ I heard someone by us call it. She said the short, dark-haired girl that was there was the only one who did it right.” She laughed and sipped her drink. “We had to get the hell out of dodge soon as we saw Vik’s van pull up, so we didn’t get to talk to anyone much. Didn’t even get eye-candy’s name. He’s going to your school, though.”

“Small campus,” added Kateryna, smiling coyly as she sipped her mead. “You’ll be seeing him around.”

Ivan hoped not. He didn’t want him subjected to Viktor’s treatment more than he had already been.


	5. Rings and Po- Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace = Monaco

_ “Love leads to present rapture, - then to pain; / But all through Love in time is healed again..” ~ Charles Godfrey Leland _

Shopping the day after Christmas felt like Black Friday 2.0.

Hetaville Outlet Mall’s lot was packed, so Mathias had needed to park his black Pontiac halfway down the road at the Waffle House by the highway exit. That lot was nearly filled as well, despite no one being inside Waffle House, so Alfred figured they weren’t the first ones to circle around the outlet mall before giving up.

“Hope we don’t get run over while we walk,” Julchen grumbled as she climbed out of the open passenger’s side window.

“Use the door—oh, for fuck’s sake.” The effect of Mathias’s scolding was ruined by laughter as Alfred climbed over the divide between the front seats to follow Julchen out the window.

Mathias, still laughing, then leaned over to roll the window up, having to use pliers kept in the glovebox, thanks to the handle falling off the door right after he got the car. He left the window open a crack to keep air going through the car; Mississippi had a recent warm spell, temperatures pushing seventy-five. After weeks of it never getting past the fifties, it felt stifling, and Julchen was already sweating, fanning herself with the program from her parents’ church.

Albino like her cousin Gilbert, Julchen had near-white hair, which she wore in a bun today. Her pale blue eyes looked red when light hit them, but the thick lens of her glasses tinted, transitioning in the sunlight. She smelled like sunscreen, patches of white making her face shiny. She was allergic to the chemical that made sunscreen clear, so she had to use the kind that stayed white, making her look even paler than usual.

“If we have to be hit,” said Alfred, “pray it’s one from the college, so we can get free semesters.”

The other two laughed, and they started for the outlet mall, Mathias and Alfred sticking close to Julchen, in case she needed help walking. She was having a good day, but her health could turn on a dime when there were rapid changes in temperature.

As they walked, Julchen took over the conversation as usual, guffawing about how her parents’ preacher almost burned down the church’s altar.

“Guess he could use that good luck charm more than you,” Alfred laughed, referencing the sachet Julchen asked him to make on Yule.

She was in the broom closet and still attended church with her parents to keep them happy. After playing with a Ouija board back in college, Julchen’s mom got scared off from witchcraft entirely after a trickster spirit played a joke on her, pretending to be a demon—based on what he’d heard about the ordeal, that was Alfred’s best guess as to what happened. Julchen didn’t want her mom becoming even more of a helicopter parent than she already was, so she kept her practice quiet.

“Trust me,” Julchen groaned. “I’m gonna need it. I got Dr. Honda for statistics.”

“Statistics isn’t hard,” Alfred replied. “You’ll do fine.”

“Easy enough for you to say, Mr. I-Took-Abstract-Algebra-for-funsies.”

Mathias laughed. “God, I hated that class. I don’t know why you stayed, Al. I dropped it right after that first exam.”

“Mam promised if I didn’t drop any classes the whole year, she’d pay for my loot crates all this year. Seemed fair enough.” Alfred shrugged, agreeing when Julchen called dibs on any _The Dark Crystal_ merch.

The outlet mall had eight shops, only one of those being specifically for jewelry. Mathias led Alfred and Julchen there first, deciding they’d look elsewhere if they didn’t see anything Linnea would like. She preferred simple designs and hated diamonds, so Alfred wasn’t sure if the jewelry store would have her style, but Mathias wanted to see if they had any nice rings with emeralds, Linnea’s birthstone.

“Can I help you?” a worker asked soon as the three entered. Her smile looked frozen, and her eyes went straight to Alfred’s tattoo sleeve, visible now that his sweater was tied around his hips.

“Do you have any emerald rings?” Mathias asked, drawing her eyes back to him. “She’s, um, a size seven.”

The worker’s smile eased into a more genuine one, and she led the three to a display near the back as she explained that the ring could be resized if he found one she’d like. Julchen and Alfred kept behind Mathias but close enough to see the rings.

“Are you the girlfriend?” the worker asked Julchen and ignored Alfred entirely.

Her eyes widened behind her glasses, and she gave a hard shake of her head. “Oh, _no—_ ”

Alfred laughed, which cut Julchen off before she could blurt out that her girlfriend was out of town and that her boyfriend was at work.

“My girlfriend’s with family for the holidays,” Mathias said, bringing attention back to him.

“Surprising her with a late Christmas present?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mathias replied, sounding relieved.

Alfred smiled. He’d told Mathias to say he was getting Linnea a present for Christmas or her birthday. Soon as the word ‘proposal’ was mentioned, he’d have to put up with being shown diamond after diamond, with adamant proclamations of how he couldn’t possibly be thinking of popping the question with anything less.

Most of the emerald rings had diamonds flanking the green stones. The white gold one looked nice, and Alfred agreed that Linnea would like it—until she learned about the price.

“Definitely,” Julchen snorted as the worker’s smile fell. “If she finds out you spent that much on a ring when you’re barely squeaking by as it is, she’ll kill you.”

The three ended up leaving the store, the worker probably not happy about losing a commission, and Alfred joked that she was probably going to leave a comment on a thread complaining about millennials killing the diamond industry.

“How’s Imre doing?” Mathias asked Julchen as they looked at one of the jewelry racks at Spencers.

It was probably an odd choice for looking for engagement rings, but Linnea had odd tastes. Mathias had hoped to find something more semi-traditional, not knowing if Linnea would prefer that or geeky.

“Finally found a new roommate. Natalie? Nadia? Can’t remember, but she’s nice—once you get past the rough edges, and that’s coming from me. Her piercings and fang inserts are cool, though.” Julchen shrugged. “She’s cool about poly relationships, too, and she’s not as messy as the last roommate. I hung out with them Saturday night, and Skyped Lise. She told us about a girl she met. Art kid, kinda cute.”

The corner of her wide mouth twitched, and Alfred gave her a side-hug. “You’re hotter. I’m willing to bet my holographic Charizard.”

Before Julchen came out to Alfred, he had assumed that polyamorous people never felt jealousy in relationships, but Julchen got jealous easily and was constantly working to get past it.

Smiling, Julchen snorted and bopped Alfred away with her hip. “Dork.”

Looking at a ring with a Deathly Hallows symbol on it, Alfred asked Mathias, “Thinking about taking Imre’s suggestion seriously and proposing with a flower crown?”

“It’d be a nice idea if she was the flower crown type,” Mathias sighed as a group of teenagers entered the store and started giggling at the sight of penis- and vagina-shaped lollipops, which were a foot past the jewelry racks. “Maybe I should try Patchwork.” He put the One Ring replica back into place. “I might order something, but I know it will end up being either way too big or way too small.”

“Too big’s easier to resize,” Julchen offered.

At the same time, Alfred said, “We can stop there after lunch to look around. They got a new shipment of stuff yesterday. Gil did inventory, so I don’t know what all’s in it, but we can check.”

“Sounds good.” Julchen threw her arms over the boys’ shoulders. “Now let’s go eat, because let’s be honest. The only real reason to come here is for Uncle Bon’s po boys.”

A weight seemed to evaporate off of Mathias’s shoulders as he let Julchen guide him and Alfred out of the store and towards Francis’s restaurant between the bookstore and a clothing store.

Francis was Marianne’s cousin, but Alfred and Matthew called him Uncle Bon. He’d lived in New Orleans most of his life, but his house and restaurant were destroyed in Hurricane Katrina—he’d stayed with an old coven member in Colorado during the storm. Instead of moving back with barely enough from his insurance to cover rent in a one-room apartment, let alone a new house, Francis had taken Marianne up on her offer to stay with them for a while. Meeting Arthur had convinced him to stay in Hetaville permanently.

It looked like the lunch rush was dying down, but it still took a while before a table was cleaned off for Mathias, Julchen, and Alfred to sit. The host and waiters all recognized them, though, so it wasn’t long after being seated that they were given their usual drinks and told their food would arrive soon. Francis was no longer in sight, probably busy cooking up a storm to keep up with the demand.

“Glad to see business going good,” Julchen said after a long sip of her sweet tea, leaving the cup half-empty.

“Yep,” Alfred replied, sipping his Diet Coke. “He and Uncle Artie’s doing alright.”

“You don’t sound sure,” said Mathias, stirring his Sierra Mist with his straw. It looked like he was still worrying over what kind of ring to get Linnea.

Alfred shrugged. “I think the secrecy is eating at both of ‘em. Francis was out of the closet back in New Orleans, and I don’t think he’s all that happy about being shoved back in. He was fine for a while, but it’s been over ten years, and I think part of him resents Uncle Artie. Mattie said Francis has had Gil or Andras take over the role of High Priest for over a year now.”

He kept his voice low, Julchen and Mathias having to lean in to hear over the dull roar around them.

“Shit” was all Julchen could say after a moment.

“Are they going to break up?” Mathias asked after a while, and Alfred felt like kicking himself.

Leave it up to him to bring up a possibly-failing relationship when his friend was filled with anxiety over proposing.

As though reading his mind, Mathias assured, “I’m worried about them, not me.”

“And it’s not like it’s some sign anyway,” Julchen inputted. “Shit happens, and it can hurt like hell, but it’s about them, not some cosmic stuff to teach or preach anything.”

“How’d this get turned around to me?” Alfred asked as the waitress approached with their food. “Thanks, Grace!”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, setting down the plates of po boys and small bowls of shrimp-n-grits. She sounded like she’d tried to sing the words like Maui from _Moana_ , but the tune fell flat. “And if you need anything else, keep it to yourselves.”

She adjusted her light blue plastic-framed glasses, and some of her mousy brown hair fell from the bun her long hair was in. The ends of her hair were still blond and frayed from the near-constant bleaching she used to do.

“Any rude customers we need to know about?” Mathias brought a fist to his palm, making Grace laugh.

“No one worth the trouble,” she replied. “Enjoy your lunch!”

“Thanks!” the three chorused before digging in.

Around a mouthful of grits, Julchen answered Alfred’s earlier question. “Yer mom told us about your mystery customer before Yule.”

“Was that who you were looking around for at the circle?” Mathias chuckled at Alfred’s wide eyes as he picked up the piece of fried oyster that had fallen out of his po boy onto the table. “You weren’t exactly subtle. Linnea’s been bugging me about who it is, by the way.” 

Linnea felt awkward about asking anyone personal questions, but she was still nosy as hell and would make Mathias get information for her.

“I don’t even know his name,” Alfred sighed before taking a long sip of his Diet Coke. He frowned at his friends’ expectant expressions, knowing that now they’d gotten him to start, they wouldn’t let up until he finished. “He came in a few minutes before closing a good bit before Yule, looking for some stuff for his sister’s incense and also a present for her. It didn’t seem like he’s a witch.”

“Judge-y?” Julchen asked, eyebrows raising. She set her spoon down to redo her bun, glasses slipping down her nose as she did.

“Kinda,” Alfred said around a bite of his po boy. “But trying not to be. Like, it was pretty obvious he thought it was all stupid but was trying to open his mind a bit, for his sister.”

“The sister’s one of those girls you waved at, at Yule?” asked Mathias. He stopped wiping his mouth on his hand when Julchen handed him a napkin.

Alfred shook his head. “The sister’s seventeen. They looked twenty-five at _least_.”

“I didn’t get a good look at their faces—” Mathias stopped short, hands paused in front of his chest in an obvious gesture to the woman’s breasts as his face turned red.

Julchen’s eyebrows raised again as she looked at him, but Mathias looked away, hands lowering to his lap.

Saving him, Alfred continued, “Maybe they’re his friends or cousins, or older siblings. They disappeared right as the protesters showed up, so I think they spotted them first and ran.”

“You didn’t get his name off his receipt?” Julchen asked.

“He paid in cash,” Alfred replied, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Keeping an open mind to help his sister’s one thing. I don’t think he’s gonna want to date a witch.”

Julchen looked ready to argue, but a look from Mathias made her close her mouth. Alfred looked down as he took a big bite of his po boy, knowing they were both thinking about Antonio. Mathias would never bring him up, but Julchen might. She was probably mentally debating the pros and cons now.

After a moment of awkward silence, Mathias brought the conversation back to the ring he wanted to get Linnea. It took a while for Alfred to contribute to the conversation with more than occasional nods, thinking about Indigo Eyes and Antonio.

Partway through the conversation, he noticed movement outside the window by their table. Glancing out, he noticed a black cat watching him from the sidewalk. The cat blinked slowly and then got up and trotted off, leaving Alfred thinking of Bast and that last thing he wrote during his ritual on Yule.

_Courage to love._

That couldn’t have anything to do with Indigo Eyes, though. That had just been some random meeting. He might have only been in town for the holidays, anyway. Indigo Eyes never specified whether he lived with his half-sister; he could live hundreds of miles away.

 _Yeah_ , Alfred thought, trying to bring his attention back to what Mathias was talking about. _That’s gotta be it. He probably doesn’t even remember me, and I’ll probably never even see him again._


	6. A Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of past church abuse when Irena talks with Ivan.
> 
> Tadas = Lithuania  
> Irena = Poland (they're genderflex and also go by Felicks some days, and different pronouns will be used for them)

_ “Walk in beauty, run in freedom.” ~ Cora Anderson _

There were too many types of Slavic paganism sects (if they could be called sects when many of the practitioners looked to work alone) for Ivan to bother counting. This seemed to be due to the fact that only a small portion of pre-Christian Slavic religions were actually known, and what was known was subject to debate after debate. Some in the forums Ivan had found were quick to point out that finding good English translations was hit and miss with more misses than hits.

There was also thread after thread about whether Baba Yaga should be considered a witch goddess bastardized over time, whether she was a part of the Wiccan goddess’s crone aspect, _etcetera_. Baba Yaga seemed to be the only figure most of the people looking into Slavic paganism actually knew the name of, and she was just a fairy tale villain.

This type of paganism looked to be ninety-percent speculation on top of ten-percent history—history’s percentage being rather generous. How Natalya could think a religion like this made sense was beyond him.

Sighing, he clicked out of the browser. It was one of those TOR browsers (Eduard suggested it, saying Incognito Mode wasn’t perfect), in case Viktor tried going through his laptop, too. He’d managed to convince Viktor he’d left the witch shop soon as he realized what it was and had taken the picture to ask people at the church what to do, but Viktor had seemed to only half-believe the second part. Ivan hadn’t been kicked out or kidnapped for an exorcism yet, though, so he probably still had a strike or two left.

He’d expected living in Bumfuck to be hell, but he hadn’t expected being forced to sneak around like this. It was like when he was a kid trying to sneak out of the auditorium during Kateryna’s piano recitals, but the consequences of getting caught were much higher than getting his Gameboy taken away for a week.

At least researching schoolwork was safe—for now. Viktor was already going through lists of private Christian colleges for Natalya. Ivan would bet on him sending her to a convent if not for that stupid church’s stance being that Catholics were one of the daughters of the Whore of Babylon.

Sitting through service was like stepping into a Chick Tract. Ivan felt himself die a little inside each Sunday, and if he didn’t move out soon, there might be nothing left but rot.

Kateryna and Manon have offered their apartment multiple times, but it was a one-bedroom sardine can in Biloxi.

There was also Natalya. They might not have officially met until Ivan showed up a couple weeks ago, but he felt responsible for her. He couldn’t stand seeing her in the environment she was in; he couldn’t leave her.

He might not understand her most times, but he wanted to learn, to form the relationship distance and bad blood had robbed them of.

He wanted to pack her up and take her back to LA, where there were real beaches and plenty of witches and pagans for her to talk to and maybe learn to open up with. Her Frost Queen act kept her a loner at school as well as at the church. There were only three other teenagers around her age there, two of them as fervent as Viktor and the third currently being shunned along with his mom.

Even if Natalya wanted to be friends with Valeriu, she would have to sneak around to do it, and she feared getting caught enough as it was.

 _Eight months, Nat_ , thought Ivan as he cracked his back before getting up. _Eight months, and you’re free_.

Taking his thermos to the counter, Ivan dug change out of his coat pocket. The coffeehouse’s heater wasn’t working, so everyone had their coats, scarves, and hats on. The short warm spell was gone, leaving it colder than before.

“Room for cream and sugar?” the barista asked as he took Ivan’s change and thermos. His name tag said _Feliciano_.

“Yes, please.” Ivan tried for a smile, but he was tired. He’d been putting off his readings and essays on hold while trying to learn more about Natalya’s religion—or spirituality; the words _religion_ and _dogma_ made her flinch.

Nodding, the short man refilled the thermos with the house brew as his co-worker steamed milk.

“Holy shit,” said a voice to Ivan’s right. “ _Nick_?”

“Language, please,” Feliciano said, and the customer apologized.

“Like you don’t say worse,” the other barista—his name tag said _Tadas_ —chuckled.

This was probably the third time since moving to Hetaville that Ivan had been mistaken for his dad.

When he turned to the customer, Ivan tried for another smile and was about to correct him when he cut him off.

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” He stuck out a hand, and Ivan took it as his coffee was set onto the counter. “I’m Gilbert Beilschmidt.”

His smile was sparkling, and Ivan found his own smile turn genuine.

“Ivan, Nick’s son, but you can probably figure that out,” he said, grabbing his thermos and thanking Feliciano. “I think my dad’s mentioned you before.”

“Nothing good, I’m sure,” Gilbert laughed, thanking Tadas when he handed him his latte. “No cyanide this time, right?”

“Just good ol’ fashioned arsenic.” Tadas smiled and took a cup from Feliciano.

“Awesome.” Gilbert pulled Ivan away from the counter as more customers got in line, and he followed when Ivan headed towards the table holding cream and sugar. “So what’s your old man been saying about me? Besides how I’m the one to thank for his acting career? How’s he doing, anyway?”

The coffee felt cold sliding down this time. “Um.”

He hated this part of the conversation when people mistook him for his father. A dark part of him hated his dad, for cutting everyone off. If he hadn’t, they’d already know what had happened. He then went through internal conflict, regretting not coming here sooner, when his dad was buried. He then called himself nuts; there was no reason to spend any more time here than absolutely needed, not when there’d been a funeral back in California.

Ivan would have hated attending yet another funeral, after already attending one back in LA, where vultures hounded them with cameras and questions. But Ivan thought a second funeral might have been easier than repeating the news each time he was mistaken for his father.

So far, only one person had followed Nicholas’s career close enough to know about his death. That had been almost worse than this conversation, though, the woman hugging Ivan tightly without preamble and leaving him having to be the one to comfort _her_ as she cried.

Nicholas had left Bumfuck without a backward glance, the few things he’d say about the town suggesting he hadn’t been the all-star boy-next-door his parents had hoped for. He’d also said the only thing that had made him return was after hearing about Kateryna. He’d already been struggling trying to get roles while caring for Ivan, and Nicholas once said the only miracle he believed in was that judge giving him custody of Kateryna, too.

“Miracle or booze,” Nicholas had laughed afterwards. “Hell, it’s Harrison County. Of _course_ it was booze.”

Anya hadn’t wanted a baby to ruin her chances of finding a husband to take care of her and had been happy to sign over custody. Kateryna was technically Nicholas’s sister and had been a surprise—first seen as a miracle, then a curse. Her and Nicholas’s mom had died hours after labor due to complications, and if Nicolas hadn’t intervened and gotten custody of her too, Kateryna could have died due to their dad’s neglect.

Nicholas had never made them feel guilty or ashamed, though. He would bend over backwards to make sure they knew they were loved.

He’d been a great dad, and it wasn’t fair that someone like him had to die the way he did while people like Viktor still lived.

“He died back in February,” Ivan said in a low voice. “He’s buried by my grandparents at the Baptist church.”

Gilbert’s face fell, and Ivan tensed, ready for the slew of apologies and empty “I can’t imagine” statements. Dealing with those bloggers and vloggers tracking him down at college back in California, trying to get stories about his dad, had been bad enough. Ivan didn’t want to know what he would have had to put up with, had his dad acted in more than a handful of TV shows and a few indie films, usually as a secondary character.

It would have been torture—more than now.

“And probably bitching about it in the afterlife,” Gilbert joked, and Ivan couldn’t help but smile, though he didn’t have the strength right then to laugh.

It was true, if there was an afterlife. Nicholas had only talked about his parents when he was drunk, and he’d never had good things to say about them. He’d also been either agnostic or an atheist—he’d used the words interchangeably—and had sometimes joked that “his kind” burned on church grounds.

“Going to the college here now or just visiting?” Gilbert asked and took a sip of his coffee.

“Going here,” Ivan answered, emptying a third pack of raw sugar into his coffee. “I was working on an essay for English. It’s due the first day.”

“Sounds like you have Jones.”

“Yes. Sir.” Ivan tagged on the last part quickly. He was still getting used to having to say _sir_ and _ma’am_ all the time.

“All I can say is ‘Good luck.’” Gilbert patted Ivan on the shoulder, having to reach up to do so. “He tries to act like one of those ‘hey, fellow youths’ type teachers, so just ignore him and do the work. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. See ya around, Ivan!” Gilbert headed out and called towards the counter, “Alexius”—Feliciano showed him his middle finger at the name—“let your brother know to give Al extra homework. Let’s see if we can convince him to transfer. Lud hates his current roommate anyway.”

“Stop living vicariously through your brother and brother-in-law!” Tadas called back as Feliciano laughed. “You chose to stay here too, so _live with it_!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gilbert rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he left.

A blast of cold shuttered through the coffeehouse as the door closed, and Ivan shivered as he sat back down and woke his laptop up. God, he couldn’t wait to get back to southern California.

“Viktor Arlovsky’s step-son, yeah?”

Ivan looked up as he opened his usual browser.

Without invitation, the new person sat down. Her ash-blond hair was in a braided bun pinned to the back of her head, and her earrings were star and moon charms attached to thin chains that hung down to her shoulders. She wore pink gloves, one hand toying with her necklace—a silver fish with a cross inside it—nervously.

“My name’s Irena Laurinaitis, Tadas’s wife.” She motioned towards Tadas, who was fixing the low tail his brown hair was tied back in.

Irena looked nervous, green eyes glassy as though close to tears. After a moment, she continued, “I used to go to your step-dad’s church. Grew up in it when Deacon Smyth was in charge.”

Deacon Smyth died several months ago and had been deacon for about sixty years from what Ivan had heard about him. He’d sounded like a cult leader more than a preacher.

“I stopped going after being shunned for a year.” Irena quickly wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her mauve coat, and Ivan handed her one of his napkins. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She sniffed. “I can’t believe it took me that long to figure out they were never going to forgive me, that wearing a dress shouldn’t even need their forgiveness.” Her voice dripped with bitterness, and she drew herself up and met Ivan’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m not here to talk your ear off about that. I just wanted to warn you. Smyth had eyes and ears everywhere, and I’m sure Arlovsky is no different.”

Ivan looked down at his cellphone, and Irena nodded.

“I thought so.” She swallowed and took a breath. Whatever the church had put her through, it must have been horrible for it to still affect her like this. “Memorize the faces in that church, and make sure they don’t see you talking to Gilbert Beilschmidt or his husband, Matthew. They own a witch shop in the south side of town, and your step-father’s church is no stranger to protesting them. I’d bet money it was Arlovsky himself that threw that rock through that store’s window. He…” She drew in a breath. “He can be impulsive.”

Gilbert was one of the co-owners of the shop Charmed One worked at. Was Charmed One the _Al_ Gilbert mentioned to Feliciano before leaving?

“Thank you for the warning,” Ivan said, glancing around.

“None of them are here,” said Irena. “Hardly any of them drink coffee—caffeine is a drug and all—so this place is mostly safe, but I checked before coming over. They wouldn’t like you talking to me, either.” She smiled sadly.

“I’m—”

“Don’t be sorry.” Irena’s eyes glittered, smile turning happier. “I met a wonderful man, and we attend a Unitarian Universalist church in Gulfport. We might even be parents soon, God willing.”

Ivan returned the smile. “I’m sure you will.”

“Thank you. Sorry to be such a downer our first meeting. You seem like a nice boy. Well, I better get going if I’m going to get to work on time. I hope to talk to you again. My other name’s Feliks, by the way, but I don’t mind too much if you mix it up. I like pink wherever my inner compass needle points.”

The name Feliks tickled at Ivan’s memory. “Did you know my older sister? Kateryna Braginsky?”

While biologically, Kateryna was his aunt, they were raised as siblings, so Ivan referred to her as such.

Irena’s eyes lit up. “Is she here? Or is she still in LA? I _loved_ her in _Cherish_. Well, loved her, hated her character. Even signed the petition when Netflix cancelled the show, but...” She sighed. “All good shows have to end too soon.”

Ivan laughed. That was the only role Kateryna had gotten that she really liked. Most of her offers were as Fat Amy-type humorous side characters or as the main character’s best friend with low self-esteem.

“She’s here,” Ivan replied. “Biloxi, actually. Job-hunting.”

“I’ll have to talk to her sometime. It’s been _ages_ since we talked face-to-face. Really is too bad about… Sorry.” Irena blushed. “Well, see you later, Ivan.” She gave Ivan’s shoulder a squeeze and headed towards the door, grabbing a coffee from her husband along the way.

The wind seemed to be going down; the cold wasn’t as bad this time when the door opened and closed. Ivan hoped that spring came soon.

It was hard to focus on Flannery O’Connor after that. Ivan had known he was going to have to walk on eggshells around Viktor. Being born out of wedlock and being raised in “a city that worshiped sin” put him on thin ice with him enough as it was. Lying that he went to church and Anya’s assurance that Ivan was still young enough to be molded was what had finally let Viktor give him a chance. 

He hadn’t realized that he’d have to walk around eggshells around the other congregants, too, but he really should have figured that out already. Part of him thought (hoped, really) that Viktor was the only crazy one, but no one there was in chains. Some, like Irena, had been raised in that church and probably went out of obligation, but even then, they must agree with the venom Viktor spat on some level. Otherwise, they’d go to another church; there were plenty to choose from.

He would just have to be careful. If he got kicked out, Natalya would be all alone again, with Viktor’s full attention. So long as Ivan was there, his attention was at least divided.

Maybe he was turning himself into a martyr. Maybe he was just punishing himself. Trying to protect a sister he’d only known through a few e-mails until recently.

Ivan didn’t need a Hell; he was more than capable of punishing himself for his sins.


	7. New Years Parties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of homophobia and religious discrimination after Alfred joins some of the others around the fire pit.
> 
> Theo = Luxembourg  
> Margarethe = 2p!nyo!Germany  
> Mikhail = Finland  
> Svante = Sweden

_ “The spiritual world is not unlike the natural world: only diversity will save it.” ~ Margot Adler _

Surprisingly, there was still mead left. Manon brought it out when Ivan and Natalya entered her and Kateryna’s apartment. Natalya had been looking around nervously the whole drive to Biloxi, changing the radio and switching out CDs every few minutes while playing games on Ivan’s cell phone in-between.

Her being so anxious had made Ivan anxious. He hadn’t been able to even try reassuring her that Viktor and Anya wouldn’t find out about her sneaking out. They’d stopped checking on her at night, and even if one of them randomly decided to tonight, Ivan doubted they’d get too close to the pillows under the blankets to notice anything amiss.

Soon as Kateryna whisked them towards the tan couch, a huge smile on her face and hands moving as she talked, both Natalya and Ivan calmed down.

Natalya even smiled, narrow shoulders easing. Swinging over her heart was a pentacle she usually kept hidden under a corner of carpet in her closet, and the way she kept looking down at it and touching it warmed Ivan’s heart. She looked both terrified and exhilarated at being able to wear it over her dress, for all—well, three people—to see.

“You’re of drinking age somewhere,” Manon said as she brought Natalya a cup of mead. “You’re only getting one cup, though, then just sparkling grape juice and water after.”

“Parenting already,” Ivan mused, setting the cup Manon handed him on the coffee table. He took off his coat and scarf, gently setting both over the back of the couch.

“Someone has to,” Manon responded, plopping down in the loveseat adjacent to the couch. She kissed Kateryna in thanks when she handed her a bottle of beer. “No need to be embarrassed, hon.”

That was directed to Natalya, whose pale blue eyes were on the floor. Her long, silvery-blond hair veiled her narrow face, which was red with blush. Being raised how she was, she was bound to have reservations concerning same-sex couples ingrained into her. Indoctrinated prejudice was difficult to fight, no matter how aware the person was that what they’d been taught was wrong.

“Oh! I just remembered I have something for you.” Kateryna set her glass of wine on the coffee table and went into her and Manon’s bedroom.

She returned with a long, wide, thick blue ribbon with crystals hanging off either end, one larger than the other and crafted with smooth edges and ending at a point. There was silver stitching in the ribbon right above the crystals, and as it was brought closer, Ivan saw that the stitching resembled the blocky letters on the bottle of mead. That told him they weren’t normal letters like he’d thought, but they looked close enough to probably be overlooked if noticed, which was good.

The one that resembled a _C_ or “less than” sign in math was right above the larger crystal. Above it was what looked like a _Y_ but with three prongs instead of two.

At the other end was a letter that resembled an _H_ , the middle line at an angle, and above it was a straight line with a shorter line striking through it at an angle.

“I called back one of the actors from _Cherish_ I’m still friends with,” Kateryna explained, smiling as Natayla examined the ribbon like it was too precious to touch. “She’s a Heathen—Nordic god worshiper?—and was talking about maybe auditioning for the remake of _The Craft_ if you want to see it with us when it comes out.”

Natalya’s wide eyes rose to meet Kateryna’s. Her thin lips were parted, but she didn’t say anything. This was the most emotion Ivan had seen from her in a single night, and she looked like she might break.

“She does,” he answered for her, smiling when she looked at him. “I don’t care if I have to kidnap you. Once you turn eighteen and I have money in my savings again, you’re coming with me to California.”

“ _Us_ ,” Manon corrected as she swallowed a swallow of beer. “You are _not_ leaving us in Hicksville.”

A laugh escaped Natalya before she bit her bottom lip, and she finally set her cup down and took the ribbon from Kateryna, who continued where she’d left off:

“My friend told me the runes are—and I’m about to butcher these—Naudiz, Hagalaz, Algiz, and Kenaz. The tiny gem is amethyst, and the bigger one is labradorite. Pınar said the amethyst is good for healing, communication, and intuition, and labradorite… I forget but something about future-telling. It’s a pendulum, but I figure you can wear it in your hair”—she stepped aside to point at the orange ribbon holding back Manon’s curls—“and the crystals and runes pretty much stay hidden.”

“It’s perfect.” Natalya’s voice cracked. She got up and wrapped her arms around Kateryna’s neck. “Thank you so much.”

Ivan smiled, chuckling at Manon’s grin and thumbs-up as Kateryna hugged Natalya back.

“I’ve always wanted a little sister,” Kateryna gushed, sounding choked-up. She’d always been brought to tears easily, like all the emotion Natalya wouldn’t show had been shoved into her. 

“It’s true.” Ivan took a sip of mead. “There’s pictures of her putting me in dresses and wigs.”

“They’re in the album!” Manon hopped up and set her bottle onto the table and leapt into the bedroom.

“Oh, _hell_ no!” Ivan called after her, and Natalya laughed more easily as she pulled Ivan back down onto the couch.

Moving behind the couch to help Natalya tie the ribbon in her hair, Kateryna said, “You’re _much_ prettier than he was.”

“Gee, thanks.” Ivan couldn’t help but smile, but it fell when Manon returned with the scrapbook she and Kateryna had put together a couple years ago.

The sound of Natalya laughing again kept Ivan quiet, however, and he simply drank his mead as the others looked through pictures of him posing in various sparkly dresses and long beads. He couldn’t help but smile after a while, chiming in when Natalya asked him questions.

It was only for the night, but he wanted to believe that this was a prelude to what things would be like when they moved back to LA, Natalya free and in tow.

* * *

Usually, Chun-Yan held New Years parties at her house, but her kitchen was being renovated, so Olivia had volunteered her home. She lived with two roommates, one who was in Jackson until next weekend and one who was up for anything, so long as it involved food and booze. 

Patchwork Coven were here too, plus some solitary pagans like Michelle and her girlfriend, Sakura. Julchen was with her parents instead, who were hosting their own small party, Linnea was still in Oklahoma, and Mathias was in a Discord-call campaign with his D&D buddies.

Alfred refilled his cup of mulled wine. The second pot was half-empty already, and Olivia assured that she and Margarethe, her roommate, had plenty of wine for a third pot if needed.

“How many of us are gonna have to spend the night?” Alfred asked, only half-joking.

Olivia clapped her hands together, looking overjoyed. “Ooh, I haven’t had a slumber party since high school! We have _plenty_ of blankets!”

Refilling her own cup, Margarethe snorted, “And there’s enough pillows on her bed alone for the whole county.”

Her short, blond hair was spiked up, sides and back buzzed close to the scalp, and she only wore a black bandeau and leggings, showing off the scars on her waist and lower back—the story of how she got them changed and got more ridiculous each time someone asked how she’d gotten them.

“Isn’t there some study or whatever that says people who sleep with a shit-ton of pillows are really lonely?” asked Theo, whose face was flush from wine and whatever he’d brought from home to add to it.

Grace, his girlfriend, quickly pushed him away singing, “Time to switch someone to tea! Thank you so much for letting us tag along for the party, Ms. Treffy! We’re going to go find Mr. Bon outside now!”

Giggling nervously, Olivia replied, “It’s no problem, sweetheart! I’m very glad you and your beau are enjoying yourselves!”

“We definitely are!” Theo sang, oblivious to the bruise he’d just poked at. “Ow! Grace, where’s the fire?”

Marianne, always nearby when there was a situation needing soothing over, handed Olivia one of the truffles she’d made earlier today. “I really wish you’d volunteer to be a model again. You were always one of our best.”

“I can always volunteer,” Margarethe said as she stepped away from the stove for someone else to get some wine. She posed and flexed to punctuate her point, and Marianne clapped, laughing.

As those three talked about art and modeling, Alfred slipped away to follow Grace and Theo outside. They were sitting by the portable fire pit, and Sakura’s large, black-and-brown mutt looked up and thumped his tail excitedly as Alfred walked up.

“… looked just like his dad,” Gilbert was saying. “Doc, you remember Nick Braginsky? He was in my class—”

Interrupting, Alfred sat between Sakura’s dog and Anyte and jested, “Everyone was still learning their ABCs way back when, you old geezer!”

Everyone laughed, and Anyte gave Alfred a side-hug and chided him for not finding her earlier.

“You musta been wearing Hades’ helmet,” Alfred returned.

At the same time, Francis laughed, “Don’t worry, Gil. You’re not the only old geezer here.”

“Here, here for the ancient ones!” cheered Sadık as he lifted his cup of sweet tea. A Muslim, he didn’t drink alcohol, but he’d started hanging out around Chun-Yan’s coven since marrying Anyte. “May we get the respect we fuckin’ deserve!”

“Here, here!” everyone forty and over cheered, lifting their cups with some swearing or screaming as liquid spilled over at their attempts at clinking their cups, bottles, flasks, and drinking horns together.

“Any rednecks set off fireworks yet?” Alfred asked, slicking his beer- and wine-dampened hair back from his face.

His face was starting to break out again, but with all the high energy tonight, he wasn't even thinking about it anymore.

“Only two!” Gilbert scoffed. “They’re a disappointment this year.”

Watching fireworks sent up from peoples’ backyards before midnight was probably more of a New Year’s tradition than the official fireworks, but in the last few years, not as many people in this part of Biloxi were setting them off, probably due to the stricter laws as compared to smaller towns and rural areas.

As he drank and chatted, Alfred scratched Komainu—he finally remembered the dog’s name—behind his floppy ears and down his neck, which had thick hair almost like a mane.

Sadık talked about his latest book draft and the interviews lined up about his recently-published novel, _Reflected Gaze_. He also bragged about Anyte working on a new book of poems, and how she’d been commissioned for the foreword of a women’s literature textbook.

Francis’s restaurant was doing well, and he said Arthur was sending his best. He’d gotten stuck at work, thanks to some of Hetaville’s rednecks deciding to use cherry bombs and old airbomb repeaters instead of sparklers and ground spinners.

Gilbert and Matthew got to visit Peter last Sunday, after he and his foster family returned from church. Peter’s foster parents didn’t agree with Gilbert’s and Matthew’s religion, but they liked them and were trying to help as much as they could to make sure they’d be able to take Peter home.

“Sound like way better foster parents than mine,” said Mikael after a long draft of beer from a drinking horn. “So glad I only had to stay there for a year before getting sent to my dad’s.”

Svante, Mikael’s husband, hummed in agreement as he took his drinking horn back.

Both lived near Gulfport, were Asatru, long-time friends of Marianne’s, and Svante was both Alfred’s and Matthew’s sperm donor. They called them their uncles, and when Mikael and Svante talked about maybe having kids two decades ago, Marianne had volunteered to be their surrogate mom, but Mikael and Svante had changed their minds about kids and had gotten dogs, cats, and goats instead.

“All this running around the courts are making y’all do is total _bullshit_ ,” Michelle, who was sitting by Alfred and Komainu with Sakura, exclaimed, sounding tipsy, and the others grumbled agreement.

“Remember how Mads almost lost little Juniper to that jackass ex of hers?” Carlos, who’d migrated outside when Alfred wasn’t paying attention, asked, and a series of swearing and shaking heads answered him. “I couldn’t even help, ‘cause if the board gets even a fuckin’ whiff of me being in a coven— _poof!_ No tenure for you, witch fag!”

The growling and grumbling grew louder, and Alfred frowned as he drank. He didn’t want to be talking about stuff like this. True as it was, parties were all about forgetting about the shittiness of the outside world, not wallowing in it.

Before the growing anger could bud into full outrage, however, Olivia, Marianne, Alice, and Margarethe swooped out with more wine, beer, water, and sweet tea, and Francis replenished the firewood in the pit. Svante, usually quiet, started singing a Swedish folk song. His baritone voice carried well, and the mood quickly shifted as everyone joined in, not caring about whether or not they could pronounce the words correctly.

“No magic quite like music,” Alice whispered as she hugged Alfred from behind. “You’re looking flush. Switch to water for a bit.”

“Yes, mam,” Alfred chuckled after his now-empty cup was plucked out of his hand and replaced with a water flask almost as long as his forearm.

Chun-Yan started playing the wooden flute she was hardly ever without, and her husband, Yao, set a plastic chair out for her.

It wasn’t long before Margarethe returned with her lap drums, keeping one and handing the other two out to Matthew and Anyte. Olivia then dashed back into the house, returning with her pan flute, and those without drums but a good sense of rhythm clapped on the ground, their legs, or the back of a nearby chair.

The song shifted to “Pagan Ways” by Damh the Bard, then “One Way Living” by Omnia, and then improvised songs as those not playing instruments started an impromptu spiral dance around the backyard. Komainu even joined, jumping every which way with people patting him as they passed the excited dog by.

They played and danced and cheered through the night, throwing up hands and calling out words of power once the fireworks started.

Now this was what Alfred had needed.

Complaining and stewing in anger accomplished nothing. Better was taking that anger and spinning it anew.

This was what led to change, and change—or, more so, motivation to create change—was what they needed.


	8. First Day of Class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brendan = New Zealand  
> Eva = 2p!Hungary  
> Dr. Djimou = 2p!Cameroon

_ “The risks involved in the pursuit of magic are--put simply--either getting frightened by unpleasant perceptions or becoming deluded. Unfortunately it is possible to suffer from both symptoms at the same time.” ~ Philip Carr-Gomm _

Ivan finally finished _Wise Blood_ and his essay last night, and he shifted his book bag to his other shoulder as he went down the steps by the campus bookstore. The buildings down the hill looked newer than the others, and he wondered if maybe one of them was Rodinia Hall. He still had a half-hour to find it, but even the thought of being late made him anxious.

Luckily, two textbooks had been found easily online for cheap, and Dr. Jones didn’t require any text books, which lessened the blow of him assigning a one-thousand-word essay due the first day of class. He said all the short stories, essays, and poems they’d be reading could be found online, and while they needed to get their own copies of _Their Eyes Were Watching God_ , _The Grapes of Wrath_ , and two plays Ivan had never heard of, it was still cheaper than getting a textbook. Ivan appreciated that.

Especially when he saw that the textbook he needed for statistics was one of those loose-leaf textbooks that could only be bought new. It came with a code he’d need to do the homework, and Ivan was going to be royally pissed if they never used the book and he just spent over one-hundred dollars just for an online code.

The campus was tiny compared to Ivan’s last college. It was in the southeastern part of Hetaville, a few miles from Feliciano’s coffeehouse—and the pagan store.

While it was small, though, Ivan was already lost. He should have come here a couple days before to figure out where the buildings all were, like Manon had suggested.

Looking at his schedule—statistics and physical psychology Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—Ivan saw that at least the classes were in the same building. Last year, he’d had fifteen minutes to book it across campus every Tuesday and Thursday and ended up having the door slammed and locked in his face more than once.

Hopefully Dr. Honda and Dr. Djimou wouldn’t be as strict with their tardiness policies, just in case.

“Need any help?”

Ivan turned, looking down to meet a guy’s bright green eyes. He had a friendly smile and had the air of someone that felt like a friend after just meeting them. People like that tended to rub Ivan the wrong way now, but he forced himself to calm down, reminding himself that he didn’t know this guy and that he was just being helpful.

 _It’s not going to happen again,_ Ivan thought, offering his schedule for the guy to see. “I’m trying to find Rodinia Hall.”

The guy brushed his long, dark brown bangs away from his eyes and pointed up the steep staircase Ivan had used to come down. “Go up past the bookstore and admin building and across the street. You’ll find it next to the grown-in path to Pangea Hall—there’s this hand-painted sign in front of the magnolia tree there. Want me to show you?”

“If it’s no trouble.” Ivan folded his schedule and adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder. The stupid loose-leaf textbook was heavy paired with the paperback psychology book.

“I’m Antonio, by the way,” the guy said as they headed up the stairs. “I saw on your schedule your name’s Ivan?”

He pronounced it like _eye-vin_ instead of _ee-vahn_ , and Ivan corrected him gently. It was an easy and common mistake for people to make.

“Thinking of joining any clubs, Ivan?” asked Antonio, saying his name more slowly as to get it right.

There was a prick under Ivan’s skin, telling him that there was more to it than simply Antonio trying to get his name right, but he again forced himself to calm down. He didn’t know that. Being in a new place he already didn’t like, living with Viktor and a mom that had barely spoken two full sentences to him since his arrival, he was bound to be more anxious. He was bound to hear maliciousness where there was none, especially after what had happened.

“I don’t know….” Ivan side-stepped as someone rushed past, swearing all the way to the campus bookstore. “Any you suggest? I’d gone to a few clubs at my old school but never really stayed long at any.”

“Which ones? Maybe we can find something similar here.”

Tension left Ivan’s muscles. Antonio was being genuinely kind; his worries were unfounded, as they often were.

 _But not always_ , that stupid part of him whispered. While tiny, that dark spot of his mind held a great deal of power over what choices Ivan made, and he just wanted it to shut up.

“My friend Eduard dragged me to anime club once, but I didn’t really click with anyone there, and I don’t watch anime much,” said Ivan, sticking his hands into his pockets. He’d forgotten his gloves, and he already couldn’t feel his fingers. He smiled as Antonio laughed. “Another friend dragged me to Quidditch Club. They were nice enough, but I’d never been a big _Harry Potter_ fan.”

“Me, either, to be honest,” Antonio responded. “But I’d never really liked fantasy in general. I like thrillers and mysteries more.”

“Same.” Ivan smiled. “So I tried Mystery Club, but the club president couldn’t find an advisor or get any funding, so it ended up falling apart.”

“Sucks. Sounds like it could’ve been a cool club.”

They stopped at the street as a few cars went by, a black Pontiac holding a coffee cup on its roof.

 _Impressive_ , thought Ivan, biting back a laugh when the cup toppled over right then.

“ _Fuck_!” a girl cried from the car, loud enough for Ivan to hear even though the car was halfway down the street.

“We used to have an anime club here,” Antonio said as they crossed the street. “Not many joined, so it had no funding. We’ve never had a Quidditch Club, though. People have tried to start one before, but a nearby church started _Harry Potter_ book burnings in protest, so the club never happened. I was still in high school when this happened, but everyone in the county heard about it, and I guess no one wanted to try starting it after that.”

Opposite of the cracked sidewalk was a leafless magnolia tree with a sign in front of it pointing to a dirt path. The swirling cursive proclaiming the path as the way to Pangea Hall was faded, and no one had bothered to clear the clumps of crab grass or weeds out of the narrow path.

“Pangea Hall’s supposed to be haunted,” Antonio informed when he noticed Ivan looking. “If you’re into ghost stuff, there’s a paranormal investigation club—for now, at least. It got started last year, and from what I hear, the president and vice president don’t get along. But they usually hang around Pangea Hall.”

The careful expression on Antonio’s face and lilt of his tone said he was prodding Ivan, trying to figure out what he thought about this. It was a similar tone he’d used when talking about the book burnings, to which Ivan had reacted with a look of confusion and horror.

He might not like the books much, and while he’d heard of people burning Rowling’s books in protest—though all they did was give her more money—it had always been in articles talking about other people in other places. Being in the very place where one of those types of protests happened made his skin crawl, especially when he knew exactly which church had been behind it.

“Interesting,” said Ivan civilly, “but not really my thing.”

Was Antonio asking because he was into those things and wanted to gauge Ivan’s response before delving into those topics with him?

Irena’s advice returned to Ivan’s mind.

He didn’t recognize Antonio from anywhere, but he’d so far only been to Viktor’s church three times, and other than his family and Viktor, he only really paid attention to that shunned mother and son. Ivan didn’t think Antonio went to the church, though. He would have mentioned Viktor or a student Bible club by now, right?

Unless Viktor was already suspicious and had tasked someone to watch him.

God, he was becoming paranoid.

“Understandable.” Antonio stopped and gestured to a rectangular building. They had to step off the sidewalk to avoid someone running down the sidewalk crying about being late already. “Here’s Rodinia. Math’s mostly in the first floor, but there’s a couple on the third floor. Psychology’s mostly in the basement, but a few are on the first and second floor.” He chuckled. “At least the room numbers make sense in this building. If you have any classes in Nula Hall”—he gestured towards an older-looking building further down the street—“then you might need to take a picture of the map posted in front of the doors.”

“I don’t recognize the name, so I think I’ve dodged that bullet. Thank you for your help!” Ivan smiled. “I hope to see you around.”

“Same.” Antonio grinned and waved as he turned away. “See you!”

The basement was easy to find but stifling. Ivan took off his coat as he moved around groups and avoided people sitting on the floor, backs against the beige walls and legs spread out or crossed in front of them.

People around him talked animatedly about Christmas breaks to one-another, asking about family and presents and trips.

Class 103 was up a small incline, just past the open double doors that cut the basement level in half. There were already some people in the class, which had long tables in two rows down the classroom. The chalkboard was flanked by bulletin boards, and someone coming into the class after Ivan set a box of chalk and a couple of erasers on the wooden holder in front of the board. She had bright red hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, showing dirty blond roots at her hairline. 

As Ivan sat down in a chair halfway back and closest to the door, the woman said, “Y’all let Dr. Cam know Dr. Stewart is saying if he throws any more chalk, he’s gonna have to buy more his own damn self.”

The professor threw chalk? It reminded Ivan of a professor he had that threw markers at people who weren’t paying attention to his lectures.

“How’re Seb and Morgan?” a girl with glasses and long, mousy brown hair in a braid asked.

“Morgan caught chicken pox at a New Year’s party,” the woman sighed, shoulders falling. “So he’s staying with my parents for now. We don’t want Sebastian catching it.”

“Younger’s better,” someone commented. “My mam got chicken pox last summer, and it got _real_ bad.”

“‘Younger’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘infant,’ and there’s a vaccine now. Seb’s scheduled to get it in four months. Morgan’s allergic to the vaccine, so he never got it.” The woman tried for a smile, but her blue eyes were tired. “And I’m sorry about your mother, sweetie.” She stepped aside for more people to come in. “She doing better?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, well, I’ll leave all to Dr. Cam. He’s on his way down now.”

“Bye, Mrs. Amelia!” a few people chorused.

Someone sat next to Ivan and took out his textbook, notebook, and pencil case with the precision and organization Ivan usually only saw with freshmen. He was small enough to be one, and he had a baby face framed by wavy, dusty brown hair. He didn’t have the typical nervousness of a freshman, but it was the spring semester, so he might have gotten over that already.

Noticing Ivan watching him, the guy suddenly split into a huge smile, as though he rarely got the opportunity to talk to a classmate and was overjoyed by the opportunity.

“Oh, you’re tall! My name’s Brendan,” he said, taking Ivan’s hand to shake before it could be offered. “I’m a psych major. I haven’t declared a minor yet, but I really want to study criminal justice and be a profiler or forensic psychologist. How about you?”

“Creative writing major,” Ivan answered, taking his hand back but smiling, “but my minor’s psychology.”

A girl sitting behind them blurted, “Please help me pass the writing exam!”

“You failed again?” the guy sitting next to her guffawed.

“Shut up, Roland!”

The girl had silver-grey to pale pink ombre hair that brushed her broad shoulders, and she wore white false lashes with pink feathers at the ends. Red glitter decorated her cheeks, and she’d used yellow lipstick to draw a heart over her mouth. She was so bright—especially beside her black-clad friend—that Ivan had to blink.

“I can help you,” Ivan told the girl. “I used to do a work study at my last school in the writing lab.” He held out a hand, which the girl took with both of her hands. “Hi…” He struggled not to laugh as the girl pumped his arm up and down with even more excitement than Brendan. “I’m Ivan.”

“Eva!” She smiled from ear to ear, still holding onto Ivan’s hand as her eyes—made Barbie pink with contacts—shine. “And this is my stupid sorta-cousin, Roland.” She finally let go of Ivan’s hand and sat back as she pointed at her friend with her thumb.

Flashing his teeth as he smiled, Roland showed that he wore those inserts that made it look like he had fangs. The black dye in his shoulder length hair was a harsh contrast to the growing-in blond-red roots, and he wore a sclera contact in one eye that made it look like it didn’t have an iris or pupil. His Milo Thatch-esque glasses lessened the creepy factor in Ivan’s opinion. 

“I’m not the one that spent five minutes standing in the elevator whining about it not moving before realizing I hadn’t pushed the button yet,” Roland batted his eyes, and Ivan tried not to laugh.

Beside him, Brendan bit his bottom lip and covered his mouth, and Eva’s cheeks reddened as nearby people overheard and chortled.

“Good job, Eva!” one guy said, and at the same time, another commented, “At least that damn thing didn’t catch on fire this time.”

Roland laughed, “She’d probably pass out before realizing it was on fire.”

At the same time, Eva shouted, “SHUT _UP_ , ROLAND!”

“You quiet down as well, Miss Szenes,” said someone new, who must have been Dr. Djimou.

Ivan didn’t have the ear to place his accent other than he sounded to come from a country in Africa.

Dr. Djimou was tall with faded edges and part of a burn scar poking out from beneath his multi-colored scarf. His skin was dark brown, and he adjusted his wire-framed glasses while trying to get his papers to the desk at the front of the classroom. Several sheets fell along the way, and a couple of people got up to get them while Eva apologized and sunk into her seat.

“Someone close the door for me,” said Dr. Djimou, and the girl with mousy brown hair in a braid set the papers she picked up down and headed towards the door.

“It’s not time to start yet!” one of the guys that made fun of Eva earlier complained.

“Just a moment, Grace.” Dr. Djimou stopped unwinding his scarf and pulled his cellphone out of the pocket of his tweed coat.

 _Really?_ thought Ivan. _Tweed?_ It even had leather patches on the elbows.

The professor also wore a red bowtie, and once Ivan made the connection between the bowtie and fez, he realized the scarf looked like the one the Fourth Doctor wore.

“Couldn’t decide which Doctor to be?” asked someone squeezing into the room.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dr. Djimou replied, but he smiled. He swore and pulled his phone back out. “Five more minutes?!”

He ran towards the door, nearly knocking the girl and guy away. “ _Amelia_! Why’d you wake me up so early!”

From down the hall, Amelia screamed back, “You’re lucky I wake you up at all! Now learn them motherfuckers some things!”

“LANGUAGE, MRS. VARGAS! FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” a man with an English accent shouted, and it sounded as though everyone in the basement, Ivan included, was laughing.

“I’M SO SORRY, DR. STEWART!” Amelia screamed back over the roar of laughter with exaggerated regret. “DR. CAM, I MEANT _‘TEACH_ THEM MOTHERFUCKERS SOME THINGS!’”

“Amy, please don’t scream in the building!” Ivan vaguely heard a guy call from the direction of the stairwell.

“SORRY, LOVE!” Amelia yelled even louder than before, and Dr. Djimou pulled an empty chair from one of the front tables. As the laughter died down, he drank from a thermos that had _Student Tears_ printed on the side.

 _Maybe going here won’t be so bad,_ thought Ivan, nodding in agreement when Brendan said he loved this class already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one chapter where I'd changed the dialogue, mostly just with Amelia, because I was stupid and didn't bother to look up if there was a vaccine for chicken pox now. I'm old and grew up when "chicken pox parties" were a thing, so I had to change that so that Amelia didn't sound like an anti-vaxxer.


	9. Bambi's Reading

_ “Fear is dangerous, not the tarot. The tarot represents the spectrum of the human condition, the good, the evil, the light, and the dark. Do not fear the darker aspects of the human condition. Understand them. The tarot is a storybook about life, about the greatness of human accomplishment, and also the ugliness we are each capable of.” ~ Benebell Wen _

Alfred wasn’t looking forward to his Life Drawing class. He needed to take it this semester if he wanted to take that design class come fall, but the only class that had been available was Marianne’s.

The Gods enjoyed watching him squirm, he was sure.

It wasn’t until seven, so until then, Alfred was at Patchwork Spirit. His other two classes were Tuesday-Thursday courses, which he’d planned to try maximizing his hours. He hoped to get that work study job in the computer lab, too. With two jobs, he might get to afford chest surgery within the next year.

The bell above the front door brought Alfred out of his thoughts as he rearranged the pendulums, and he smiled as a customer walked in.

“Merry meet!” Alfred sang, smiling wide as he set the pendulums down and walked over to see the customer better. “Do you need help finding”—Alfred blinked but recovered quickly—“anything?”

The customer was one of the women from the circle—the one with golden-blond hair, pulled back with a ribbon. It was red this time, and she was bundled in a thick coat, boots, mittens, and scarf that nearly reached her feet. Her freckled face was flushed from the cold, and her warm smile put Alfred at ease. Again, he thought she looked familiar, but that was common with customers.

Hetaville was small, but the southern Mississippi Pagan community was even smaller, so recognizing people but not immediately being able to place them was an everyday occurrence. She might be from Biloxi, Gulfport, or another neighboring town and only travelled here for Craft supplies or socializing with other witches—online forums only helped so much when reaching out.

“Ah, I wasn’t sure if you’d be here today!” Her tone made her sound as though she were about to sing, and she came closer as she pulled off her mittens and stuffed them into her pocket. She was several inches shorter than Alfred, but she had an air about her that made her seem taller than she was. “Do you have time to talk?”

She didn’t have a Southern accent, but with a university and a military base nearby, it was common to hear different accents around town.

Another customer called from the room past the herb and oil space.

“Just a moment,” Alfred called back. “Um, you can wait upstairs. The reading room’s the open door to your right at the top of the staircase, and if you need to use a restroom, it’s the door to the left of the staircase. I’ll be up soon, and I should have a few minutes to talk.”

The woman beamed, which made Alfred feel happy.

“Will do! See you in a moment, then!”

She skipped into the room off to the side Alfred had motioned towards, and he went into the back room. Another customer was there, and she was miffed about not finding _Spiral Dance_ or _The Witch’s Bible_. Alfred explained those were their best-sellers and that more copies would arrive within the week, if the customer wanted to leave her information.

“If I had to wait anyway, I could just buy them from Amazon!” the miffed customer complained before stomping out.

Alfred waited until the bell dinged to groan. “Lord and Lady give me strength.” He blew his fading-purple bangs out of his face and remembered the woman upstairs. “At least she seems nicer.”

Stretching up, Alfred waited until he felt his spine pop. He never slept well the nights leading up to the first day of class, and he was feeling it as he went back into the main shopping area as the bell dinged again.

“Merry meet!” Alfred chimed, smiling again as he adjusted his glasses. He’d switched to the green frames for today, the red ones misplaced. “Do you need help—nah, you’re good.” He laughed and gave Michelle a tight hug. “I got a customer in the reading room. You okay wandering by yourself? Just finished brewing the house blend. Gonna give Feli a run for his money.”

Michelle laughed, returning the hug with more force. She had her hair styled into space buns, decorated with skull barrettes. She’d dyed the ends red, and it looked like today was a goth day.

Michelle’s fashion style had four modes: Goth, manic pixie dream girl, rockabilly, and woman-whose-rich-first-husband-was-about-to-meet-an-unfortunate-accident.

“I’ll even cover while you drop a Tarot card on a lit candle,” Michelle laughed as she smoothed her black coat, decorated with inverted pentagrams along the flayed bottom and sleeves. Black and red eyeshadow made her amber eyes almost seem to glow, as though Bast were looking through her.

“ _One_ time,” Alfred groaned as he turned towards the side room. “CD player’s still busted, so you have to put up with the alt station’s five songs on repeat, but Mattie doesn’t want death metal playing during store hours.”

“Buzzkill.”

Alfred went into the side room and paused, eyes closed. The air smelled of citrus and sage thanks to the wax burner plugged into the outlet under the wide window, and the scent quickly calmed him. He then opened his eyes and got moving; the woman had been waiting upstairs long enough.

There was a nook up the first two steps to the right, hidden from the rest of the room. There was only enough room for a large chair and an end table, which was currently empty. It looked like someone had left some notes on Chernobog, Morana, and Dodola on the end table, so Alfred made a mental note to figure out who to return them to later.

There was a landing halfway up the stairs as they turned left at a right angle, and in the corner of the landing was a waist-high end table. On it was a statue of Fortuna holding Her cornucopia and standing on a pile of gold. In front of her was a bowl of coins (most from members of Patchwork Coven but some from customers who honored Her, a cup of cooling Earl Grey tea, and a lit green, thirty-day candle.

While Alfred didn’t worship Her as an aspect of the Goddess like he did Bast and Cerridwen, he still nodded to the statue in respect to Fortuna before continuing up the staircase.

The woman was looking through one of the decks on the long table by the door, and she looked up with an expression like she’d just gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Smiling, Alfred said, “Look through them if you want. This room’s used for readings, but we don’t have any appointments booked for today. Usually, people like looking through the cards to see which they want to use for their readings.”

“How do they choose?” Her tone was searching and sounded cut-off. It sounded like she’d been about to add a playful comment but stopped herself, not knowing what might be offensive or not.

 _Not in the community, then,_ thought Alfred.

He thought of Indigo Eyes again, wondering what this woman’s relation was to him. Older sibling? Cousin? They didn’t look anything alike, but genes were weird. Plus, shared alleles weren’t the only way to be family.

She appeared to be more open-minded than Indigo Eyes, at least.

That could be her big, bright eyes and cherub-like face, though. Added to her short, plump body, she poured out maternal energy, like you could cry on her shoulder about anything and feel as though her presence alone made everything okay. Anyte would call her an incarnation of the Goddess’s Mother aspect.

Smiling, Alfred explained, “A couple of the decks up there are real popular, like the Wildwood Tarot you’re holding and the Gilded Tarot. Since they’re more familiar, sometimes people choose those, or maybe they really like the artwork of another deck. There’s also some Oracle and Lenormand decks there.”

“How do you remember the meanings of so many?”

“Depends on the reader and how much they practice.” Alfred shrugged. “My brother, Matthew, is better than I am. He’s better at reading people, which helps a lot. Hollywood likes to make out cartomancy as seeing the future, and while it can be used for that, it’s more for looking at current issues and laying out the different paths that can be taken. It’s like when you talk about your problems to someone and come to the realization of what you need to do in the middle of talking. The answer’s there; people just need help seeing it.”

“Sounds more like therapy,” the woman chuckled, and she held up the Enchanted Map Oracle deck. “I don’t have an appointment, but…?”

Nodding, Alfred took the deck from her. “Good eye. I actually know the meanings of these ones.”

“Maybe I should be giving _you_ the reading.”

Alfred laughed and closed the door before leading her to the circular table in the middle of the room. “Maybe.”

As the woman sat at the table, Alfred went to the back corner of the room. He put a few drops of Matthew’s divination oil mixture before lighting the tea light candle. It wasn’t long before the scent of frankincense, pomegranate, and almond began filling the room.

“No incense?” the woman asked, arms crossed on the table, which was decorated with black velvet cloth. The wide, indigo candle pushed to one side of the table would remain unlit.

“Both the owners have asthma,” Alfred explained as he started shuffling the deck. “Some customers might, too. I know two regulars that do, and one of my friends that frequents here has dysautonomia, so even the oil or even perfume or cologne can sometimes trigger her migraines.”

The woman blinked. “Ah…. Never thought about that.”

“Most people don’t take disabilities into account when they don’t deal with it personally. I have to be reminded, too.” Alfred set the deck in front of the woman, thinking again that she looked familiar. “Knock twice, ask a question, and then knock three times. You can ask out loud or just think it. Whichever’s more comfortable.”

“How much is this reading going to be? That’s not my question, by the way.” The woman unwound her scarf and folded it in her lap.

“Free, since it’s your first time.”

“Oh, so I get hooked, and I’ll come back and pay through the nose then.”

Alfred smiled playfully. “Exactly.”

The woman grinned and knocked on the deck twice. She closed her eyes and thought for a moment, and then she knocked three times and slid the deck back to Alfred.

“How long have you been doing this?” she asked, tucking some hair not kept back by the ribbon behind one ear, which was pierced twice in the lobe and once in the tragus. One of the earrings was a purple double-sided axe, which made Alfred think again that she seemed familiar.

“Reading for people?” he started setting down nine cards in three rows. “Well, for money, a few times the past couple months. Like I said, my brother’s better than me, so I only take over when he, Andras, or Grace all can’t do it for whatever reason.”

“Is Andras or Grace a boyfriend or girlfriend?”

Alfred almost dropped the cards when he laughed. “Uh, no.” He could practically hear Grace laughing and Andras—old enough to be his father—blanching. “They’re in my brother’s coven. I’m not dating anyone right now.” He chuckled the last part.

The woman’s green eyes sparkled as she grinned. “Aro? Or just taking some alone time?”

“Alone time,” Alfred responded. He then cleared his throat and pointed to the card in the right corner closest to him, wanting to change the subject. “Anyway, this is the _Follow the Leader_ card, and it’s reversed. You see a need for someone to step in, and you see yourself as a good contender to step forward and get things done. However, for you’re stepping back, and the _Wishing Well_ ”—Alfred pointed to the next card—“and the reversed _Compass_ show that you took a leap of faith recently. It was pretty major, shaking up your usual schedule and expectations, and while it feels right, your power feels shaken, and you’re not entirely sure what direction is the right one.”

He noticed a change in the air and looked up. The woman’s smile was gone.

“Go on,” she urged, but all playful mirth had disappeared. Whatever she’d asked about was weighing heavily on her mind.

“Right under _Follow the Leader_ is _Intention_ reversed. For this situation, while someone does need to take charge of the situation, you need to stay back for now and review what’s going on and how you can help. You should look at why you want to take the leadership role.” He pointed to the card below that one. “Especially seeing as _Stormy Fields_ indicates that what you’re worrying about is out of your control.”

“I—” The woman coughed. “Go on.”

Alfred wasn’t sure if she’d been about to argue or go into detail about what was happening, but he didn’t press.

Looking back down at the cards, Alfred pointed at the one in the center and continued. “You don’t like not having control over a stressful situation. You’ve been deeply affected by the last time you felt like you’d lost power over a situation, and you still haven’t recovered, not fully.” He wished this reading wasn’t so morose, but he didn’t want to lie about what the cards said either. “Reversed _Protecting Treasure_ shows you make yourself vulnerable and have gotten hurt. It’ll be best for you to take a step back and reassess the situation. Old feelings of helplessness may be getting brought back up, but this situation is likely very different and then requires a different focus.”

The woman coughed again but nodded, and Alfred wished he knew what had happened, so he could…

 _What exactly?_ a hissing voice said in the back of his head. _Help? You can barely read some pictures printed on cardboard._

Blinking hard, Alfred pushed the voice back and continued, trying to keep his voice even and soft. In case the customer wanted to talk, Alfred wanted to present himself like someone who could listen, even if that was all he could do.

He pointed to the card in the middle of the row closest to her. “ _Flying_ is reversed. Taking a leap of faith, it shows you’re a strong person”—he saw her flinch at that—“but strength has its limits when you’re on your own, and you probably don’t tell anyone about the feelings you’re going through.”

“There’s a card that says that?” The woman looked away with red rising to her cheeks.

She looked embarrassed for using such a brusque tone, but Alfred let it slide and wished again the cards had shown something happier—or that he’d lied. It wasn’t like she’d know the difference, anyway, right? But Alfred couldn’t lie; all he could do was keep going and hope she got whatever help she needed.

“Guess I am psychic.” Alfred tried for a smile, but it fell quickly. The woman didn’t seem in the mood for joking right now. He cleared his throat and pointed at the card below Compass. “This is the _Wizard of Awareness_. Try some introspection. I’m guessing you try to push these feelings out of your head. But now they’re coming back, and it colors how you want to act. That can be a good thing, but think about who is directly affected by what’s happening. You’re part of it by proxy, but when action is taken, you’re not the one that has to take the brunt of the hit, I’m guessing. Try to keep that in mind.”

The woman nodded. She’d known this already, but as Alfred had said before, she needed to hear it for it to sink in.

Pointing to the final card, then the first card with his other hand. “You don’t know how much you’ll hurt the people you’re wanting to help, which is why you haven’t stepped forward in the leadership role yet.” He gestured to the row closest to the woman. “There’s a lot of risk involved, whatever you choose.” He then gestured to the row with the _Compass, Wizard of Awareness_ , and _Heal the Ouch_. “The best course of action is to stay a step back for a while—”

“Just sit and wait?” Again, she didn’t sound angry so much as crestfallen. Whatever this was, she felt helpless, useless.

“Sit and prepare,” Alfred corrected.

“Hope for the best and prepare for the worst.” It sounded like she’d tried to make it sound like a joke, but the tone fell flat. Still, she managed to smile, so Alfred smiled as well.

 _Military brat_ , he thought. That was a line he usually heard from the military kids whose parents were stationed at Keesler, in Biloxi. Maybe she’d lived here before and that was why she looked familiar.

While Hetaville was a small, redneck town, it was also a mix of college students, professors, and military families, so the town felt more open than other small, rural towns might. Reactions about this ranged from “Good, we need the diversity here,” to “Damn Yankees trying to change things.”

“Thanks.” The woman paused before rubbing her eyes before bringing up one end of her scarf to dab at the corners. “You weren’t kidding about showing what you already know, but I’m guessing not everyone reacts well.”

“A few get angry,” Alfred replied slowly. “Sometimes they’re a bit rude, but usually they apologize later on, saying it was what they needed to hear, even if they hadn’t wanted to.”

“That’s how I feel,” the woman chuckled humorlessly. “Anyway, I realized I never told you my name.”

She stuck out a hand over the cards, and when Alfred saw the lambda, rainbow, and lesbian flag rings on her ring, middle, and pinky fingers and the tattoo of violets on the underside of her forearm poking out from beneath her sleeve, all the pieces of familiarity about her clicked together.

“Ren?” Alfred’s voice was barely more than a breath, and he was sure there were stars in his eyes. His cheeks and the tips of his ears turned red from embarrassment at how star-struck he was.

He hadn’t even watched her videos in years, which made him feel weirdly guilty now that she was sitting in front of him.

Laughing, she took her hand back, and she looked to be back to her earlier self—or, more likely, that she’d been able to repair the armor she wore to hide the fragile girl underneath.

“Must’ve been a long while since you’ve visited my channel,” she giggled, and Alfred blushed harder.

Modern Renaissance—or Ren to fans—started her channel in 2006. Alfred found her channel a couple of years after that, when Alice and Marianne finally started to let him use the internet for more than homework or games like _The ClueFinders_. Matthew had found her channel first and had introduced Alfred to it.

Matthew’s favorite videos were Ren’s LGBT series, but Alfred had mostly watched her skits and vlogs. It had been back when she had teased orange, red, and black hair and painted-on cat whiskers, a style he had mimicked for a while. He switched to watching Lets Plays in middle school and now mostly let Game Grumps, Critical Role, or podcasts play in the background while he studied or painted. He hadn’t seen any of Ren’s videos since sixth grade.

“After Google Plus happened,” Ren explained, “there was some stupid glitch or just Google being Google or YouTube being YouTube or _something_ , and my username randomly changed to Bambi Dyke, because I didn’t want to use my real name for my Gmail account, so now everyone calls me Bambi.”

“At least you’d already been out by then,” Alfred joked, and Ren—or Bambi—laughed again.

“Very true. Anyway, feel free to call me Manon. It’s what my friends and family call me.” She stood up, and Alfred followed suit. “Thank you for the reading. I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit, and I like the atmosphere here.”

As she wound her scarf back around her neck, Alfred offered, “My name’s Alfred Bonnefoy. I can’t remember if I’ve introduced myself.”

“Really good meeting you, Alfred.” Manon took her cellphone out of her coat pocket. “Hopefully I get to learn as much about you as you did about me today. Unfortunately, I didn’t expect the drive to be as long as it was or there to be an impromptu reading, so maybe we’ll have to talk more later.”

She put her phone back into her pocket, and Alfred headed towards the door. “The offer for you to give me the reading is still open.”

“We might even make it a video if you’re not camera shy.”

Chuckling, Alfred said, “Never been camera shy in my life.”

“Good.” There was a sparkle in Manon’s eyes Alfred couldn’t read. “Anyway, I think I saw a necklace I saw downstairs my fiancée would love.”

“Sure!”

Alfred motioned for Manon to head downstairs first before following her, wondering about the reading but knowing better to just start asking questions. There was a nagging at the back of his mind, but he ignored it. Whatever was going on in Manon’s life, he was sure she was already thinking over the advice to sit back and plan before taking action.

She didn’t need him getting any more involved than laying down some cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bambi" is an older slang term for a lesbian that prefers cuddling over sex.


	10. Confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death mention when Alfred passes the trail towards Pangaea Hall. A few of the victims are mentioned with how they died.

_ “If that which you seek, you find not within yourself, you will never find without.” ~ Doreen Valiente _

None of the art professors at Hetaville University seemed to believe in introductions. First day of the new semester, and there was already a semi-circle of desks, which doubled as easels, surrounding a simple wooden stage in the center of the room. One of the desks couldn’t lay flat anymore, and Alfred wasn’t surprised to find someone already there, pulling up the desk surface to make it stand up straighter.

The broken desk somehow became known as the Lucky Easel, the story changing every semester concerning its origin. All the desks here were decades old, so it was anyone’s guess how it was the only broken desk here.

Alfred took a seat next to Eva, whose grey-to-pink hair was pulled back from her narrow face by a purple headband with cat ears on it.

“Good day so far?” he asked her as he set up his desk.

Looking through past drawings with an array of reactions, Eva nodded. “I love Dr. Cam, and Dr. Jones is real nice, too. You have him, too, right? Dr. Jones, I mean. I don’t think you have Dr. Cam, or do you? I can’t remember. We don’t talk as much!”

“We talked last week—well, texted.” Alfred laughed, and offered a hug, which Eva took after a moment. She squeezed hard, chin quivering slightly. “Feeling better? Seeing Ursula again at the pizza place must’ve been hard.”

He’d been waiting for a response, but he didn’t say that. With Eva, it was everything in her own time. This had led them to have plenty of fights in high school, but they were getting better.

Pulling away, Eva nodded. “I should be over it. Roland says to just forget her, but I can’t.”

Before Alfred could respond, Marianne shut the door and clapped three times to get everyone’s attention.

“Sit down everyone, and get out your supplies if you haven’t already,” she said, voice carrying through the room easily. “Don’t worry about finishing just yet; just get something on the paper. Sketchbooks due on Friday; you’ll find the prompt on the board.”

“Yes, ma’am,” everyone chorused, and a middle-aged man made his way to the stage in the center of the room.

He undid the robe as he lounged in the chair, draping the robe over him in such a way that made his pose risqué but with his penis and part of one leg still covered. The position was easy enough for him to stay in for the two hours of class time, and Alfred flipped his sketchbook to a clean page and fished a graphite stick out of his plastic pencil case.

Emotion leached from Eva’s face as she focused only on drawing, and Alfred kept his mind on the task at hand as well. He’d never been a fast drawer, and he’d always felt like he was missing that innate talent so many of his classmates already had and were refining.

Alfred had an eye for color and composition, but he struggled with human anatomy and proportion no matter how much he practiced, and when he had to erase his first attempt at the model’s shoulder from his paper, he realized he’d pressed down too hard again.

Disappointment and anxiety and feelings of unworthiness pumped through him, and Alfred slowly breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. He kept his strokes short and rhythmic to match his breathing, and the graphite touched the tan-toned paper much more lightly than before in the process.

As expected, he didn’t finish by the time it was time to go, and getting up was a chore after sitting on the metal stool for so long. He leaned back to crack his back, spine reminding him not to slouch so much, especially in his compressor. By the way Marianne was looking at him from the other side of the room, Alfred was sure he was going to get the posture lecture again tonight.

Alfred plucked Eva’s cell phone out of her hands as he headed over to the board to look at this week’s drawing prompt.

“Give that back!” Eva cried as she chased after him, grunting when Alfred held her phone up too high for her to reach. “I wasn’t going to text her!”

“That’s because I stopped you!” Alfred grinned when she frowned and quickly changed Ursula’s contact name to Toxic. He then handed her cell phone back, saying, “And not the Britney Spears masterpiece.”

Eva snorted, trying not to laugh but failing. “I know it’s a bad idea—”

“So don’t do it.”

Eva narrowed her magenta eyes and took a picture of the prompt with her phone. “It’s not that easy.”

Also taking a picture of the prompt while trying to stay out of the way of another student, Alfred responded, “If she ever grovels at your feet and begs for forgiveness, _then_ maybe you can consider talking to her. Until then? Let her be dead to you.”

Smiling at the thought of Ursula groveling for anything, Eva nodded. They finished packing up and parted ways, Eva heading to her job and Alfred heading to the library to meet Julchen. Mathias had work today after his classes and wouldn’t get off until after midnight, so Alfred wouldn’t get to see him until tomorrow after American lit.

 _If being in my mom’s life drawing class wasn’t bad enough,_ I got stuck with Mr. Jones, thought Alfred with a grimace. He paused at the magnolia by the overgrown trail to the haunted dorm and drew a couple of offering stones from the side pocket of his backpack.

“Rest easy,” he whispered as he left the stones by the fading sign.

Despite what his family and their covens said, Alfred retained a fear of ghosts and the dead. He still tried to be respectful, though, especially of the ghosts supposedly residing in Pangea Hall.

Alexandre Vilar, twenty-four when he was killed. He was a grad student and the RA for the third floor, which was where the fire started. When his body was discovered, there were stab wounds and cuts along his arms and stomach, showing that he’d fought the arsonist, who was still at large. Firemen said that if Alexandre hadn’t fought the arsonist, the fire likely would have spread faster, based on the gasoline that had been spilled around and on Alexandre’s body.

Sebastian Ricci, twenty when he died en route to the hospital. He’d been on his way to the dorm to visit his brother when he saw the fire and ran inside to help, while his girlfriend ran to the library to use the pay phone that used to be there and call 911. Sebastian’s picture was next to Alexandre’s in the admin building. He was also Romano’s cousin and the namesake of his youngest.

Anke Kraus, nineteen when she died en route to the hospital. She’d snuck into the dorm to spend the night with her boyfriend. She’d been a member of that ultra-conservative church, and Deacon Smyth had claimed her death was God’s wrath striking her down for her promiscuous ways. Her grieving parents left town and moved upstate after that. Anke had been a distant relative of Gilbert’s and Julchen’s, and both kept her picture on their personal altars.

Luciano Ricci, Sebastian’s older brother and Anke’s boyfriend. Nurse Salama said he kept asking if Anke was okay as he lay on the hospital bed, coughing and weak. Nurse Salama had lied and said that Anke was fine and would be able to leave the hospital the next morning. Luciano had died with a smile on his face, and Nurse Salama still cried when she told the story.

There had been three other victims, and over two-dozen people treated for smoke inhalation and burns, but those were the victims Alfred remembered most.

Swallowing, Alfred headed up the small hill towards the crosswalk. The library was right across the street, smokers congregating out front, as they did every night. A group of them were playing _Magic: The Gathering_ , and Alfred walked around them and headed around to the back of the library. The café was there, and while it wasn’t nearly as great as Feliciano’s, it was decent and offered needed caffeine boosts until midnight.

“Already started your sugar shit!” Roland called from behind the counter. Steam fogged his glasses, and his black hair was tied back in a low tail. “So don’t order different!”

If not for Eva, Alfred probably would have never become friends with Roland. He was brash even for him—one of those “brutal honesty” types that disregarded feelings. He was an acquired taste, and Alfred still didn’t really hang out with him, but he’d grown on him—“like mold,” Roland would say.

“That sugar shit is the only thing that’s drinkable here,” Alfred joked, getting his wallet out of his backpack as he approached the counter. “Eva almost texted Ursula today, so head’s up.”

Roland spat out a line of curses, earning a sharp look from a patron seated at a nearby table. Her friend rolled her eyes but kept talking.

“How do you still have a job here?” Alfred asked through his laughter.

“Nepotism, my friend. Best way to get a job.”

“True, that.” He traded a five for the toffee-and-almond flavored latte and waited for his change. “Thanks. Try not to poison anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah. By the way, your ex is here. Heard him mention history, so avoid the third floor. And the fourth and fifth floor.”

The history sections were split up, since it was so expansive. Hetaville University’s history department was the school’s biggest draw.

The sip Alfred took of his latte fell to his stomach like a weight. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Still want to tell me not to poison anyone?”

Alfred managed a small smile and wished Roland a good night as he headed to the elevators.

Drinks and food weren’t allowed in the upper floors, but so long as the drinks and food stayed in the lounging areas and weren't spilled on the books, no one really cared. The computer area on the first and sixth floors and the reference shelves and archives in the basement were the only areas where the rule was enforced.

Soon as Alfred made it to the seventh floor, Julchen found him and dragged him to the table she was stationed at.

“I’m dying,” she groaned. “ _Help_.”

“It’s only the first day!”

“In Honda’s and Stewart’s classes!”

“Okay, fair point.”

Both professors assigned a lot of work, but at least with Dr. Honda, none of it was due until the week before finals. It had to be done on a homework site, though, and the code was in the textbook required for the class. Julchen couldn’t afford the textbook on top of her other expenses, so she was planning to get an entire semester’s worth of problems done within the two weeks of the site’s free trial.

She had dyscalculia, however, so getting that much work done in that little time was going to be tough.

Luckily for her, Theo also had Dr. Honda (just on different days) and could afford the textbook. He’d already used the code for the site and had sent Julchen screenshots of all the problems. While the order and some of the questions were different, Julchen would have enough done to get most of them out of the way quickly. She could then use the rest of those two weeks to figure out whatever was left.

“You and Theo are fucking geniuses,” Alfred chuckled, looking at the print-outs. “Okay, where are you stuck?”

It was almost ten when they decided to quit for the night. Alfred was more aggravated than anything, and Julchen had masking tape over her mouth with “fuck you” written on it in Sharpie. In the middle of telling Alfred that he was a shitty teacher, he’d put it on her, and she’d left it on in her passive-aggressive way of saying what was written on the tape. 

Alfred had his own work to start on, anyway. He hadn’t finished his paper on _Wise Blood_ , and he wanted to see if there were copies of those assigned plays here. He’d rather not buy them if he didn’t have to. Dr. Jones may be an ass sometimes in an attempt to seem cool, but at least he tried to help best he could where textbooks were concerned.

Between two of the elevator doors was a library directory, and Alfred looked it over as he dropped his empty cup into the trash can. Drama and Contemporary Literature sounded like a promising section.

Problem: It was on the third floor, opposite of Ancient Cultures and Mythology.

“Please be on the fourth or fifth floor,” Alfred muttered, praying to the Lord and Lady for luck and patience—mostly luck.

But when the doors opened on the third floor, Antonio stood waiting, eyes widening slightly as he looked up from his cellphone.

Tense, all emotion fled from Alfred’s expression, and he nodded woodenly as he stepped off the elevator.

Letting the doors close, Antonio watched Alfred, mouth a straight line and green eyes steely. With no one else around, leaving the floor silent, there was no reason for Antonio to keep up his usual happy-go-lucky smile.

“Did you have a good _Christmas_ break?”

Alfred paused and turned back slightly, but he stayed close to the wall, so he’d be able to turn around the corner and reach the tall bookcases quickly.

There’d been a lilt to Antonio’s voice, like he was smirking, but his expression hadn’t changed.

“I did.” He tried to keep his breathing even. “You?”

“Yeah. I made it to your brother’s circle, though I’m afraid there was a block keeping me from joining the fun.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Alfred remembered seeing him in the protestors’ crowd at the Yule circle.

“That’s too bad.” Alfred didn’t smile, and his tone came out harsher than he’d intended.

When it made Antonio’s smile grow, heat rose to Alfred’s cheeks. His eyes stung. He hated that Antonio had this kind of power over him, and he hated it more that Antonio knew he held that power and enjoyed it.

“Good night,” Antonio bid, and the elevator opened as soon as he pushed the button. “I hope to see you around. I like the purple, by the way. Much better than the green.”

“Good night,” Alfred replied. He turned around the corner and clutched his backpack to his chest as he listened to the elevator doors close. “He’s not that bad.” He knew he was. “I’m overreacting.” He knew he wasn’t.

But as usual, Antonio had left him confused and doubting what he remembered.


	11. Icebreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ursula = 2p!Liechtenstein  
> Ingvar = 2p!Sweden

_ “God plays dice with the universe but She uses D20s.” ~ Gordon White _

Laurasia Hall had been tricky to find at first. It was at the edge of the campus, a sign welcoming people to the next town just up the street going past it. It was across a narrow access road from Gondwana Hall, which looked newer with tall windows looking into the main lobby on the first floor. Ivan glimpsed a mosaic-type mural in the back of the lobby but just faced forward again, getting out of the way as people ran past on the sidewalk.

There was a parking lot in front of Laurasia Hall; it was a Gold and Silver Zone, meaning only faculty and off-campus commuters could park here. Ivan had decided against paying fifty bucks for a parking decal, so he parked behind some shops in the Square a couple of blocks from campus. He’d be screwed if it rained one day, but it worked fine for now.

Stray cats wove around the crowds of students around the building, the bravest ones seeking out people with food and begging for treats. A group of girls were kneeling by the bench by the sidewalk outside the building, meowing at the cats as they offered pieces of bread, trying to lure in the cats close enough to pet.

“How do you know you’re not telling them to fuck off?” a guy laughed at them, and one of the girls answered by offering a middle finger.

Dr. Jones’s class was on the third floor, past the writing lab. Ivan made a mental note of the lab’s location, thinking of Eva from yesterday. Maybe he could help out. At his last school, working in the writing lab hadn’t exactly been work study like he’d said, but two of his classes had been covered by a scholarship offered by being a proofreader. He had a faculty’s scholarship now (weird title, seeing as he wasn’t faculty or related to faculty, but whatever), which covered five classes plus two-hundred dollars towards his textbooks.

The class already looked half-full when Ivan walked in, but a mess of purple hair in the back immediately caught his attention and made him freeze in the doorway.

Charmed One was in his class.

“’Scuse me,” someone grunted, and Ivan broke out his spell.

His cheeks warmed as he stepped aside and sat in the second row, in the very back. The desks were low and crowded into where the aisles between them were narrow, making it hard to walk between them without kicking someone’s bag or bumping into another desk. Ivan’s knees hit the bottom of the desk when he sat down, but if he pushed his feet forward to try being more comfortable, he would end up kicking the girl who just sat down in front of him.

She plopped into her seat and took out a sketchbook, pencil, and kneaded eraser. Her long, brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and a dark blue beanie covered the top of her head. Her posture screamed at people to leave her alone, and Ivan didn’t want to risk kicking her feet and making her angry. Something about her said that would be a very bad idea.

A tall guy with House Targaryen plugs and red-orange curls in a bun atop his head sat in the desk between Ivan and Charmed One. When Ivan pulled out his notebook and pen, he could still see him out of the corner of his eye, thanks to Charmed One leaning forward to talk to the girl sitting in front of him.

The purple in his hair was fading, and the shaved part was growing out, riding that line between blond and brown. A lock of hair stuck up and curled slightly, and the frames of his glasses were green today instead of red.

He glanced Ivan’s way and scowled while talking to a blond girl with long, pale blond hair and blue eyes, and Ivan felt his heart clench and fall.

Then he realized Charmed One and his friend ( _Dear God please not a girlfriend_ , he mentally pleaded) were looking at the girl in front of Ivan. Manbun beside him was about as tall as he was, so maybe Charmed One couldn’t see him?

The people around them were talking too much for him to hear their conversation, and it wasn’t before long before the door slammed shut as a man who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties strutted to the podium. He wore a Neo-esque trench coat and boots that looked like they were from Hot Topic. Chains hung from his dark jeans, and the anarchy _A_ marked his shirt in a graffiti-like design.

Ivan thought back to what Gilbert had said about Dr. Jones back at the coffeeshop, and the description seemed fair. The professor had plugs about the size of nickels, and his dark brown hair was in a sweeping, partially slicked-back style to show off the numerous piercings in his left ear. His beard was trimmed close to his face, and someone to Ivan’s right asked his friend how long they thought Dr. Jones spent each morning getting ready.

“Time for every introvert’s favorite pastime while I get my shit together—”

“None of us will live long enough for that!” someone called out, and everyone laughed.

Dr. Jones smiled deviously. “You can start, smartass. Stand up and state your name, major, and where you’re from. Whoever sits behind you goes next, and so on and so on, moving to the row to the left. After that, row closest to the door can go and move left till we get back to you. If the name you say is different from what’s on the roll, tell me now or wait until after class so I can change it, if you don’t want to blow your secret identity.”

Ivan wasn’t sure why someone would be embarrassed enough by their name to need to tell the professor their nickname in private, but it wasn’t his business.

“Fucking icebreaker games, man,” someone muttered as the guy Dr. Jones called out stood up.

He sat near the front of the class, in Charmed One’s row, and the blond girl grumbled, “Thanks a lot, Kuro. You couldn’t have sat somewhere else?”

Kuro had messy black hair that partially covered his left eye, and when he looked around the classroom, Ivan saw that he wore red contacts. His pose and smirk said he was used to being in the center of attention and milked all he could out of it.

“I’m Kuro Shitsuji”—People that recognized the title snickered, and Ivan smiled, thinking that Eduard would have liked him—“and I’m majoring in criminal justice, ‘cause, y’know ‘Know your enemy’ and all that shiz. Oh, and I’m from Dayton, Ohio.”

Manbun called out, “Try not to cut yourself on all that edge!”

At the same time, someone coughed, “Weird-o edgy fuck.”

Kuro blew a kiss to Manbun and sat down.

Next were two guys, one majoring in business and another majoring in secondary education. Ivan only partially-listened, not interested in them.

“’Ey.” The blond girl stood up, and Ivan blinked at the Invisible Pink Unicorn T-shirt she was wearing. “I’m Linnea Undset—”

Manbun wolf-whistled, and Dr. Jones pretended not to notice as Linnea crumpled up a piece of paper and chucked it at Manbun’s wide forehead.

“I’m majoring in criminal justice like Mr. Hannibal-Lecter-is-my-husbando”—she smiled sweetly when Kuro flipped her off—“and I’m from Bixby, Oklahoma.”

She sat down, and Ivan’s full attention was on Charmed One, who stared straight ahead at the board, hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket. Ivan willed him to look his way, but if psychic abilities were possible, neither possessed them.

“I’m Alfred Bonnefoy”— _Al_ , Ivan remembered Gilbert mentioning that name to Feliciano in the coffeehouse—“I’m double-majoring in art and psychology, and I’m from here.”

Psychology. So Charmed One— _Alfred_ , Ivan rolled the name over in his head—likely had classes in Rodinia Hall, too. Had they just missed each other yesterday? Or were his classes there on another day?

 _Stop it_ , Ivan told himself. _It doesn’t matter anyway_.

“They’re just majoring in that just ‘cause there’s no defense against the dark arts major,” someone whispered with a laugh as the next person went.

“Only ‘cuz of damned Umbridge,” someone commented.

“Figured it’d go into ‘gender studies.’ Ain’t that what those types study?” someone responded.

Ivan’s mouth twitched, but he tuned them out. He forgot most people’s names soon after hearing them and really hoped no one tried to talk to him later, expecting him to remember who they were. He also hoped Dr. Jones wouldn’t be one of those professors that made them do a group project first thing in the semester.

The professor was sitting at the desk next to the podium, feet propped up and folders and books stacked neatly around his boots. He’d occasionally look at a piece of paper in his hands, probably matching names to what was on his list.

“My name’s Ursula Rheinberger,” said the girl in front of Ivan, and his heart suddenly clenched. Since he hadn’t been paying attention, he hadn’t realized until now that he was going to have to stand up soon.

 _Shit_ , he thought.

“Make any _Little Mermaid_ jokes, and I’ll stab your eyes out with a dinglehopper,” Ursula continued, and people laughed—some nervously.

When Ivan glanced over at Alfred and Linnea, though, he noticed they’d remained stone-faced, Alfred doodling in his notebook. They must not like Ursula for some reason, and Ivan wondered what she could have done to make him scowl at her like he had earlier.

Ursula said she was majoring in classical history and that she was from Gulfport before plopping back into her seat.

Forced to move slowly, Ivan managed to get out of the desk without knocking it over.

“I’m Ivan Braginsky,” he began, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alfred’s head shoot up, eyes wide. “I’m majoring in creative writing, and I’m from Los Angeles.”

“Holly _wood_!” someone called out as Ivan sat down, again moving slowly so as to avoid moving the desk.

“What the hell you doin’ in redneck country? Studying us for some kinda role?” someone else laughed, and Dr. Jones finally spoke up.

“Ask each other questions on your own time. We still got some fresh meat left to introduce themselves.”

People quieted, and Ivan tried hard as he could not to look around Manbun at Alfred. He could see Linnea turned around, though, and she pointed at Ivan with her thumb as she mouthed, “Him?”

Had Alfred talked about him? Good or bad?

He’d seemed attracted to Ivan when they first met, but that could have faded. Ivan hadn’t exactly been the kindest, and after talking about it in detail over Skype, Eduard pointed out that Ivan had probably come off as rude and judgmental.

And then there was Viktor.

If Alfred figured out Viktor was Ivan’s stepdad, any of that flustered attraction was sure to fizzle out.

“Thank you, Hallström; now sit,” Dr. Jones said to Manbun, whose name was apparently Ingvar.

He bowed in a flourish before taking his seat, one girl giving a melodramatic sigh as she fanned herself, which got Ingvar to wink at her.

Dr. Jones swung his legs over the stacks of books and folders and stood, grabbing a red folder with a skull and crossbones stenciled on it. “Alright. Now that y’all know each other—”

Everyone groaned, some grumbling and a few saying variations of “I knew it.”

“Group project!” Dr. Jones sang. “We’ve got an odd number, so we’ll have six groups of four and one of five. If anyone drops out and leaves your group, tough. Find out which car is theirs and throw eggs at it or something. I don’t care, just get the project done, and email me those essays on _Wise Blood_ by midnight if you haven’t already. I’m doing y’all a favor not putting up with Blackboard this semester. Don’t make me go back to it on my knees.”

Dr. Jones opened his folder and told everyone to sit with their group on Thursday to discuss which of the topics they should cover and come up with a study plan. He passed out stacks of papers to the front-most person of each row, the grumbling starting up again as people scanned the lists of topics.

“First come first serve for these,” Dr. Jones continued. “Too boring if all y’all do the same thing.”

When the last sheet of paper reached Ivan, he scanned the list of topic ideas: Use of madness in Southern Gothic, Vilification of women in American literature, Motivation in Puritan writing vs writing during the Age of Reason, Compare/contrast American Transcendentalism to British Transcendentalism, Importance of Black female biographical tradition…

American literature in general had never appealed to Ivan, but he needed to take it for his major. He really didn’t want to do anything with the Age of Reason, Transcendentalism, or the Puritans. The Age of Reason writing was just politics during the time around the Revolution, and Ivan didn’t even like getting into politics back home. He really didn’t want to get into politics here—even politics from the 1700s.

Transcendentalism just bored him to death, and the Puritans reminded him too much of Viktor’s Chick Tract church. If they read “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” this semester, Ivan was sure he’d end up hearing it in Viktor’s voice.

“Time for the reaping!” Dr. Jones proclaimed, attempting to imitate Effie from _The Hunger Games_. He cleared his throat and started naming names, people looking around when their names were called.

When it got to the group of five, Ivan’s heart was punching his ribs. Neither his nor Alfred’s name had been called.

“Alfred Bonnefoy!” Dr. Jones called. “Linnea Undset! Kuro _Shit-_ soo-gee!” He bowed slightly as Kuro kissed his extended middle fingers and blew a kiss off them. “Ivan Braginsky! Ursula Rheinberger!”

Linnea swore, and Ursula glared at her and Alfred, who glared back, seeming to forget about Ivan’s presence.

Ivan bit back a groan. _Perfect_.


	12. Writing Workshop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ableism, biphobia, and ignorance towards polyamory and asexuality shown in Ivan's part of the chapter when his classmates talk about Julchen.
> 
> Anyte = Mama Greece  
> Miguel = 2p!Cuba

_ “One cannot shape the world without being reshaped in the process. Each gain of power requires its own sacrifice.” ~ Phil Hine _

The mosaic-like mural in Gondwana Hall was a replica of Rivera’s _Man, Controller of the Universe_. On either side of it were curving staircases to the second floor, and the front lobby with the mural had tables interspersed, people seated with books, laptops, and tablets. In the front corner, there was a carpeted area with a two-seat couch, a couple of armchairs, and a waist-high shelf overflowing with books. Three people were stuffed into the couch with a fourth lying over their laps and holding a laptop they were all watching.

Ivan’s class was on the second floor, and he moved around a crowd heading for the front doors as he moved towards the closest staircase. After going down the second hallway, though, he stopped for a moment to double-check room numbers.

 _Either I’m shittier at math than I thought, or people in Mississippi can’t fucking count_ , he thought.

Trying to find the right room before he was late kept Ivan’s mind off American literature. After the groups had been decided, they went over the syllabus. Dr. Jones laminated that the tardy and absence policies were the department, and while he didn’t actually care if anyone wasted their tuition money by skipping, he was forced to enforce the rules.

Going over the syllabus and lesson plan had made them go over class time, thanks to comments from Kuro, Ingvar, and the guy that insisted on calling Ivan Hollywood, so Ivan had ended up with five minutes to get to his fiction writing workshop instead of fifteen. Luckily, the buildings were next to each other, but that would mean squat if Ivan couldn’t find the damn—

 _Fucking finally_. Ivan drew in a deep breath, focusing on not looking flustered or out of breath. The classroom was right by a set of double doors, so Ivan made a mental note to go out that way when class ended. It would be the quickest route after American literature, and by the narrowed eyes of the older woman at the podium as Ivan slipped into the classroom, her views on tardiness was going to be closer to Dr. Honda’s than Dr. Jones’s.

“Try not to cut it quite so close next time, Mr…”

“Braginsky,” Ivan supplied and noted the slight widening of the professor’s sea green eyes as recognition flickered over her strong-featured face. “Ivan Braginsky. Ma’am.”

Dr. Anyte Adnan, according to Ivan’s schedule, hummed. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, it seems.”

She’d known Nicholas. Ivan felt as though his heart were being squeezed by a cold and clammy hand.

“So long as you don’t set my curtains on fire,” Dr. Adnan continued, “then you’re welcome in my class.”

 _Dad set her curtains on fire?_ “Y-yes, ma’am.”

Ivan chose a seat in the back, these desks similar to the ones in his last class. There were far fewer people in this class, though, and the aisles between desk rows were wider, so he didn’t worry as much about bumping into anyone.

“Close the door behind you, Miss Xian, and try to keep your smoke breaks shorter,” said Dr. Adnan as a girl with waist length raven hair entered the room.

She wore all black and smelled of clove cigarettes. The wings of her eyeliner almost reached her temples, and rhinestones marked the underside of her eyes. She grimaced as she shut the classroom door behind her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Hey, Mei!” a guy greeted, and Mei sat at the desk next to him, right in front of Ivan. “Writing club meet this semester yet?”

“Not ‘till next Wednesday to get everyone oriented,” Mei replied, and Dr. Adnan called attention to her as she started passing out papers.

“For those that weren’t listening to Miss Xian and Mr…”

“Miguel Alvarez,” he supplied.

Dr. Adnan nodded and made a checkmark on the page in front of her. “The writing club will start meeting next Wednesday, at five, in the writing clinic. If the time doesn’t work for you but you want to join, see Dr. Adebayo in Laurasia Hall, third floor. Her office is the one with the _Steven Universe_ poster on it. Existing members will vote on a day and time that works best, but the decision can’t always benefit everyone, so if you can’t join this semester, there’s always fall, and you’re still able to submit a story for the contest in March regardless of whether or not you’re a member. We’ll talk about the contest more next month. Right now, I need y’all to turn your attention to the syllabus.”

Ivan looked down at the syllabus but thought about the writing club. The closest thing to a writing club at his last school was the campus paper. Whenever someone tried to start one for fiction, poetry, or combining the two, they could never scrounge up enough money to keep the club functioning.

“My story last year got published in _Sober Edits_ ,” the girl in the desk to Ivan’s left whispered, a smile on her round face. She was talking to Mei and Miguel.

“You shoulda got second place at least,” Alvarez whispered back as Dr. Adnan started talking about the English department’s attendance policy.

“Thanks.” The girl tucked some of her short, black hair behind her twice-pierced ear. “But Mei definitely deserved to win.”

“Oh, shut up,” whispered Mei but with a tone that said, “Please, go on.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Adnan in a tone that made the three friends suddenly freeze. “Please, for the love of God, shut up.”

The others laughed, making the three blush, but when Dr. Adnan knocked on the whiteboard, everyone settled down. She was a no-nonsense professor, but she didn’t feel distant or grudging, so Ivan dubbed her as a “tough but fair” sort. He typically liked those types of teachers and was sure he’d like her. He was still on the fence about his classmates. Mei and her two friends seemed friendly but clique-y. They probably didn’t bring others into their friend group often.

Now that the attendance policy had been stated, Dr. Adnan started calling roll, skipping over Ivan’s, Mei’s, and Miguel’s names.

“Hedvika Kožená.”

“Here.” The girl with short black hair raised her hand briefly, and Dr. Adnan nodded.

“I’ll keep you in mind as well. Keep your conversations for critique, please, Miss Kožená.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hedvika grumbled.

Ivan recognized the name Maria Beilschmidt from his statistics class and looked over. The girl didn’t seem to recognize him, though, and her pale eyes stayed glued to her lap—cell phone, probably—glasses slipping down her prominent nose. Leaning against her desk was a cane, which Ivan didn’t remember seeing her use yesterday.

“Barking up the wrong tree,” Hedvika whispered, and it took a while for Ivan to realize she was talking to him. “That chick dates around, pretends to need a cane and sometimes even a wheelchair for sympathy. She’s sleeping around with some mechanic and Dr. Edelstein’s daughter last I heard, and there’s probably something going on between her and Witch Boy, too.”

“Purple hair?” Miguel asked in a low voice as Dr. Adnan started going into the grading system and how critique days would work. “Tarot card and pentagram tattoos? If that guy’s into girls, then I’m married to Lupita Nyong’o.”

“She has dysautonomia,” someone angrily whispered. “My cousin has it, too, and she needs a cane or wheelchair some days but not others, like Maria. It’s not ‘for sympathy.’”

“Don’t be so judge-y about poly relationships,” someone else whispered at the same time, “and if you’re talking about Imre Bíró from over on Church Street, he’s asexual. He ain’t sleeping with anyone.”

“Guys can’t be asexual,” someone scoffed, and the guy who said his cousin had dysautonomia shushed her.

Dr. Adnan looked up from her paper with raised eyebrows.

“I don’t believe in docking an entire class’s participation grades just because of a few bad apples,” she said, “but I’m starting to reconsider that stance. Now, be quiet and listen.”

It sounded like she was ready to tear into some of the students for their comments, but she refrained, instead looking at Maria with an apologetic look on her face.

“Yes, ma’am,” the class chorused, and Ivan still felt heat in his cheeks and ears.

He ventured another glance Maria’s way, and her head movement and furrowed brow said she’d been looking in his direction just now. She’d most likely overheard all the whispering, and if she was friends with Alfred, she was probably going to relay what was said to him later.

Stifling a groan, Ivan stared down at the syllabus and tried to follow what Dr. Adnan was saying. He had to keep his mind on the plan: Keep his head down until Natalya graduated and he had money to his name and then get the hell out. There’d be other guys. Alfred wasn’t anyone special.

* * *

Ivan Braginsky. Indigo Eyes’s name was Ivan.

And either he didn’t remember Alfred at all, or he was just seriously uninterested. He didn’t even _look_ at Alfred.

Or had he?

How had Alfred not noticed him until the ice breaker?!

He’d been too busy focusing on Ursula and talking to Linnea about her and Eva.

He was so dense! He didn’t deserve to be noticed by Indigo Eyes.

Ivan Braginsky. Alfred rolled the name through his mind. It nearly spilled over his tongue, and he took a big bite of his cheeseburger to keep himself from blurting the name aloud.

“Oh, he’s got it bad,” Mathias commented as he sat down with a plate of broccoli-and-onion pizza.

“I’m not kissing you until you brush your teeth,” Linnea told him as she eyed his pizza. She was eating pulled pork and collard greens, which smelled like the cooks had used too much vinegar.

Alfred scowled as Mathias grinned. Linnea had already filled him in on Ivan being the mystery customer and in their group project. She’d left out Ursula entirely, but Mathias wasn’t friends with Eva and didn’t have the same anger towards Ursula as Alfred did. Linnea wasn’t friends with Eva either—she found her to be too extreme and all over the place—but she hated Ursula on principle, having suffered emotional abuse from a college guy she’d dated while in high school.

“He never even looked at me,” Alfred groused around his burger.

Ignoring him talking with a full mouth for once, Linnea responded, “He very _pointedly_ didn’t look at you. Maybe it means what you fear, maybe it means he’s just as flustered as you are—”

“Hot and bothered, more like,” Mathias chuckled, mouth full of pizza, and he gave Linnea an innocent look when she glared at him. He swallowed and drank some of his soda. “But dude, he’s in your group for that project, right? Just talk to him. Linnea ‘n me started talking during that group project for soc one-oh-one.”

Mathias was two years older than Linnea but took time off after high school to work and save money, so the two started college the same year and ended up in the same sociology class the spring semester. They’d sat next to each other the whole semester but didn’t actually talk until the end-of-semester project, which they did on the death penalty. The other two members of the group were for it while Linnea and Mathias were against it, and they grew close while debating with the other two group members.

“Just don’t let Kuro get under your skin,” Linnea advised. “He’ll try to do it on purpose. He thinks it’s funny.”

“If I can deal with Roland, I think I can handle Kuro,” Alfred replied. He set his burger down and took a long sip of Coke. “And Ivan sure left class in a big hurry.”

“Could’ve had another class right after,” Mathias pointed out, and Linnea nodded as she fixed her cross-shaped barrette to keep her grown-out bangs out of her face. The rest of her long hair was in a bun atop her head, complete with a net and decorative stick the same color as the unicorn on her shirt.

“Julchen’s in fiction class right now, right?” she asked, and Alfred looked at his cell phone to check the time before nodding. “And the big guy said he’s majoring in creative writing. He might be in her class, and you know how Dr. Adnan is about punctuality.”

Anyte was calm and easy-going at home and around the coven, but when in Professor Mode, she was stern and no-nonsense. People either loved or hated her, but even people not in her fan club admitted that she was passionate about what she did.

“Maybe,” Alfred conceded, but he had his doubts.

“Anyway,” Mathias segued, seeing that Alfred didn’t want to talk about Ivan anymore, “I’m gonna need help with matrices.”

Alfred chuckled. “Well, that was fast. What’s your schedule? I got a class at three, but my Monday, Wednesday, Friday class isn’t until after seven.”

“I should be able to meet you after work tomorrow if that’s good. Patchwork?”

“That should work. Just wait in the café area if I’m with someone.”

“Someone tall, fair, and handsome?” Linnea teased, not as eager to let the topic drop.

Alfred’s cheeks and ears burned as he frowned.

“Dude, we’ve been over this,” Mathias joked, grey-blue eyes sparkling. “I only like you as a friend.”

Swallowing back laughter to avoid spitting out his fries, Alfred crumpled one of his napkins and threw it at Mathias’s face.

The mood shifted, the three talking about their schedules, work, and Linnea’s trip to Oklahoma during over break. They talked until Mathias had to leave for his physics lab, followed soon by Linnea, who had to get to her deviancy and prejudice class.

Alfred was then left alone with his second helping of fries, and he took out his cell phone to check Blackboard. His three o’clock class was Abnormal Psychology with Dr. Vargas in Rodinia Hall’s basement. Romano was known for putting up all the study guides on the first day of school, and Alfred wanted to get a head start on the material. Abnormal Psychology was the most popular class in that department, and Romano was a great professor despite his hot-headedness.

Julchen texted while Alfred looked over the study guide for the first exam in two weeks.

 _I hate my critique group_ , she’d sent. Lise and Imre were probably too busy for Julchen to complain to.

Before Alfred could start typing a reply, a new message came in.

_Fucking Antonio is in it. Apparently._

Alfred froze, the fry going sour in his mouth. He forced himself to swallow, though, and he watched as a third message popped up.

_He didn’t show up today. Pray to your Gods he dripped out, please. I’m doing some skating on my own._

_*dropped ** PRAYING gdi_

A corner of Alfred’s mouth rose up slightly but then fell. Antonio was in Julchen’s class, and if Ivan was in that class, too, then…

Then, what? Antonio would steal him away just to make Alfred jealous? That wasn’t really much his style, especially since he identified as straight.

Turn him against Alfred? That wouldn’t make sense either, and Ivan didn’t really seem like Alfred’s biggest fan, anyway, so it wasn’t like he’d need much swaying.

 _Who else is in your group?_ Alfred sent.

_Other than Asshat, that Hedvika girl from our sick 101 class last sem and a dude named EE-vaughn. That’s how it’s produced, anyway. I think he’s in my math class, too? Real quiet, gave me the once-over earlier when Hedvika opened her big month about me and Imre and Lise._

_*psych **pronounced ***mouth_

Alfred didn’t bother typing when he saw the dots pop up.

_‘Sleeps around’ like ffs just say I’m a soot I know she’s thinking it too._

_*slut_

Alfred started typing but stopped when the dots popped up again.

_Icky Vicky is always running her mouth about my “~*~cute~*~” stories and how I’m like some wonton of babbling the gd judgmental bitch_

_*fucking WHORE OF BABYLON I hate my phone_

Julchen could get sensitive about what people thought of her. As kids, if someone didn’t like her, she’d hound them about why and try going out of her way to “fix” that part of herself. It usually ended in disaster, and while she didn’t do that anymore, she was still easily hurt, especially where her bisexuality or polyamory was concerned.

Since bisexuals got the stereotype of being easy or cheats to begin with, Julchen said she sometimes felt like a “bad bi” for being poly, and she hated that people referred to it as her being “allowed to cheat.” She hated it more when people assumed it made her relationships with Imre or Lise somehow worth less than a monogamous relationship. 

Alfred hadn’t been helpful when she first came out to him last year, when she’d been dating Lise and still wanted to pursue a relationship with Imre. Lise had already come out as poly, and Julchen learned that she was poly, too. She’d told Alfred, and he hadn’t understood what poly was and had fallen into the stereotypes he’d heard from others.

That had been their biggest fight since middle school, when Alfred wanted to try being vegan—which only lasted a few months—and Julchen said veganism was a sin.

Alfred’s eye went back to that first block of text.

Ivan was in Julchen’s class, like Linnea predicted, and both him and Antonio were in Julchen’s critique group.

 _My crush and friend’s ex are with me in a group project, and my crush and ex are with my best friend in another group_. Alfred stifled a sigh as he told Julchen that she’d be fine and that it would be hard to be a best-selling author while in maximum security.

 _I could just sell my life story as the best-seller then_ , Julchen returned, and Alfred laughed.

 _And risk becoming a Lifetime movie?_ Alfred sent back.

_Fine. I won’t kill anyone._

Alfred kept smiling, the tension in his muscles easing somewhat. This was going to be an interesting semester, it looked like, but he’d get through it. Julchen, Mathias, and Linnea would help make sure of it.


	13. New Bibles

_ “We also have a responsibility not to let ourselves be judged. We do not have to accept others' evaluations of our worth, nor are we obligated to believe in their superiority.” ~ Starhawk _

Grace was saving Alfred a seat between her and Emil in Abnormal Psychology. This room was the only lecture hall-type room in the building, a large pull-down screen up front behind the podium and a large desk. Since everyone in Abnormal Psych had been in this room for Psych 101, they knew the drill and left their bags up front, by the large desk. They only brought notebooks or binders and pens or pencils with them to the small, squeaky chairs, which had desks that swung up from the right arm rest.

The desks were built for people that were five-foot-five or shorter, but Alfred had learned how to make do. It wasn’t comfortable, but he could deal with the angled, slouching gymnastics pose until class ended. He would just have to crack his back and stretch later.

Alfred didn’t usually sit up front, but Grace did. Romano wouldn’t unnecessarily call on him, anyway, so he’d be fine. Even better, there was actually more leg room up here, so it looked like he wasn’t going to have to deal with a bent spine by the end of the semester after all.

“He’s awake,” Emil teased, but his expression never shifted.

It was hard for people to know how he was feeling, and he liked it that way. He was friendly only to a point, and his style often drew in looks and comments. Today, he wore black shoes with wingtips, burgundy slacks with a matching jacket (unbuttoned), and a simple button-up shirt. The collar was short and stood up like a priest’s, and decorating it was a thin, plum-colored tie knotted into a haphazard bow.

Compared to some of the outfits Alfred had seen him in, today was fairly tame.

Grace was dressed up, too, which was also her normal. Her Polo-and-khakis uniform at Francis’s restaurant was the most casual she ever dressed.

Her cream-colored coat was with her backpack at the front of the lecture hall, and her legs, covered in white kitty stockings tucked into calf-high boots, were crossed demurely at the ankle. Alfred often felt like a slob next to her and Emil, wearing worn jeans and one of his geek shirts—today was a Captain America day—under the old bomber jacket his pépère left him before he died. One of his sneakers was starting to fall apart, too. He’d been procrastinating getting a new pair for months, and the super glue wasn’t holding anymore—and Grace or Emil would get him new shoes themselves if he tried to fix them up with duct tape.

“Har-har,” Alfred responded to Emil.

Emil was the one that hated being up before noon, while Alfred got up with the sun.

“What’re your other classes this year?” asked Grace. “I’m pretty much in this building all semester.”

“Try not to catch fire,” Alfred joked, and someone behind them overheard and laughed.

“I’m never taking that deathtrap elevator.” Grace shuttered. “Shocked the campus didn’t get sued.”

“They settled, I think,” said someone that sat on Emil’s other side. “Been worse if someone died. HU doesn’t have the best history with fire.”

“Pangea Hall was burned down by a psychotic bastard, not some rat-bitten wire,” said someone sitting at the end of the first row.

“First rule of my class,” Romano proclaimed as he entered the room, kicking the door behind him, “is should I hear any of you use psychiatric terms for diagnosis such as ‘psychotic’ or ‘bipolar’ as insults or slurs, you will spend the rest of the class time writing an essay about the inaccuracy of your statement and or how it perpetuates stereotypes that push back against progress in normalizing and acceptance—and yes, I realize that this class has the word ‘abnormal’ in it makes that demand ironic, but Dr. Stewart and I are still petitioning for the name to be changed on the register.

“The essay will be two-hundred words minimum, and I don’t care if there’s only five minutes left. You’ll stay to finish the essay, and if you end up being late for another class, I’ll personally call that professor to let them know why. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the class chorused in varying degrees of sincerity as some stragglers slipped inside and dumped their bags up front.

Feliciano had Bipolar I and had been the laughing stock of the town after a psychotic episode that had him hallucinating voices he believed to be messages from St. Alexius of Rome. Alfred didn’t know all the details, since it’d happened when he was a little kid, and neither of the Vargas brothers liked talking about it. His moms and their coven didn’t like talking about it either, out of respect for them.

Romano didn’t tolerate the perpetuation of stigma towards mental illness, and he made sure to lament that doctors weren’t above falling for the stereotypes. Seeing past them took effort on each person’s part, and Romano made it clear he expected his students to put in that effort if they wanted to work in psychiatry.

Nodding, Romano combed his long, dark bangs back from his face and set his bag onto the desk at the front of the room. “If any of you have been on Blackboard recently, you’ve seen that your study guides are already up. There will be an exam every two weeks.” He waited for the groans to subside as he retrieved a stack of paper from his bag. “There’s a lot to cover, so we can’t waste time. I haven’t posted the parameters for your essays yet, one which will count as your midterm grade and one which will count as your final—or the grade to replace your lowest exam grade, should you be lucky enough to be exempt from your final.”

More groans. While this class was the most popular in the department, Romano didn’t have quite the same record. He was fair but tough, and most focused on the tough part. When it came to his exams, he took no prisoners.

Alfred looked over the syllabus and lesson plan after passing the last in the stack to Grace. He already knew the department’s absence and tardy policies—only the science, criminal justice, and poly-sci departments had different ones. The grading system was standard, too, and he already knew about the essays. The midterm essay had to be about one of the mental illnesses or disorders being covered this semester, and Alfred already knew he wanted to cover Borderline Personality Disorder.

The final essay had to follow the layout of a case study, following a fictional person with the illness/disorder from the midterm essay. That should be easy enough. He wasn’t the strongest writer, but the people at the writing clinic were always helpful. Julchen was old enough this semester to apply there, so maybe she could help him.

Once the syllabus had been looked over, Romano told everyone to get a paper and pen ready.

“Pop quiz!” he said loud enough for someone in the hallway to hear and shout back, “Good luck, y’all!”

It sounded like Amelia, and Romano couldn’t help but smile.

“Number your papers one through five, and put your names in the top right corner. If your name doesn’t match what’s on the roster, let me know after class. After today, I’ll expect y’all to sign the roll I’ll have on the desk at the beginning of class. If you don’t sign, you’ll be marked absent. No way in hell I’m calling roll twice a week when there’s over sixty of you.”

A few chuckled, and Romano continued as Alfred wrote his name.

“Question one! Have you been diagnosed—no self-diagnoses, now, but we’ll cover that later this semester—with a mental illness or disorder?”

 _Yes_ , Alfred wrote.

“Question two! Are you willing to share details of the symptoms you show or your experience in therapy or psychiatric hospitals—whether as an in-patient or out-patient—should you have stayed in one? If this question doesn’t apply to you, write ‘non-applicable.’”

 _No_ , Alfred wrote.

“Question three! If you answered ‘Yes’ to the above question, what mental illness or illness have you been diagnosed with and at what age or ages? Also add misdiagnoses with ‘MD’ written in parenthesis next to the misdiagnosis if you’ve experienced this. If you answered ‘No’ or ‘non-applicable’ to the above, write ‘non-applicable.’”

 _Non-applicable_ , Alfred wrote.

“Question four! What field of psychiatry do you hope to use this knowledge in? If you’re here out of personal curiosity, write ‘personal curiosity.’”

 _Working in a youth wing at a psychiatric hospital_ , Alfred wrote. He was considering maybe doing art therapy, but he left that out. He was still fuzzy on most details of what he wanted to do. All he knew for sure was that he wanted to help people more than he and his friends had been helped.

Thinking about it made his heart constrict, and he swallowed, focusing on his paper.

“Question five! What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?”

Reactions varied from laughter to confused mutterings, and Alfred snorted a short laugh as he wrote, _What kind? African or European swallow?_

Romano then ordered everyone to pass their papers to the right and then to the front. Soon, Grace had a stack of papers she shifted in her hands to make it more even before handing it to the professor.

“Thank you.” Romano set the papers on his desk. “Now, let’s start today’s lecture. If you don’t have a textbook yet or can’t afford the newest edition, don’t worry. Like I said in my email, all the information you need for your quizzes and exams will be in the lectures, and you shouldn’t rely on one textbook for your essays anyhow. If you’ve already wasted one-hundred-forty dollars on that door stop from the campus bookstore…” Romano shrugged. “It’s not too late to return it, so get on that.”

A few people groaned or swore, and Romano called out that they should have read his email.

Once the projector was up and running, Romano had someone dim the overhead lights. The first slide was a picture of the DSM-III, DSM-IV, DSM-IV-TR, and the DSM-5.

“The purple one is the most current edition of your new bible,” said Romano. “Psychology is a science, and as the science becomes more refined as new information is discovered, the presentation of our knowledge must be added to or even changed, sometimes to the point of it being a direct contrast from what we knew before…”

* * *

Ivan’s third and final class of the day wasn’t until four. It was in Laurasia Hall, again on the third floor. Since there was a two-hour window between the writing workshop and it, though, Ivan decided to go to the quad in the middle of campus and find something to eat.

The small restaurant attached to the cafeteria—Grazing Gazelle—was empty, and just about everything on the menu was fried, even the pickles.

The wraps offered fried or grilled, though (and one vegetarian option), so Ivan decided to with the pesto wrap. It sounded like the least messy option, and he wondered if the food court attached to the campus bookstore had better places.

Before he could consider leaving, though, Eva came bouncing out from the back. She wore a bright yellow, Polo with _Grazing Gazelle_ embroidered on the breast pocket; thick leather and rubber bands with Supernatural anti-possession pentagrams, the symbol from Deathly Hollows, TARDISes, and various superhero symbols stretched from her wrists to halfway up her forearms.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear—ooh! Writing guy!” Her mauve-painted lips formed an O as her teal eyes flickered in recognition. “Ivan, right?”

Unable to keep himself from smiling, Ivan nodded. “And you’re Eva?”

The girl’s entire face transformed when she smiled, like Ivan had made her day just by remembering her. “Yeah! Roland helped me out with getting work study here this semester, even though they usually prioritize upper classmen, which sounds really stupid to me, ‘cause freshmen and sophomores—such a weird word, amiright? Or does it mean something like how ‘sapphic’ comes from Sappho’s name—”

She stopped suddenly and glanced upward, as though she could find where her train of thought had floated away to.

Ivan opened his mouth, but Eva quickly cut him off to ask what he wanted to eat.

“Um.” Now Ivan’s train of thought was gone, but after glancing at the menu hanging above the register, he remembered. “The pesto wrap, please? Grilled chicken instead of fried, though.”

“Ooh, that’s one of my favorites!” Eva bounced on the balls of her feet slightly as she said this. “Meal or just the wrap? They’re about this big.” She held her hands roughly half a foot from each other. “ _Way_ too much for me to finish by myself, but I don’t know how much you eat. You’re really, really big, so you probably eat way more that I do.” She suddenly blushed as though realizing she might have been rude. “B-big like tall, y’know? I, I mean—”

Laughing, Ivan held his hands up in a “calm down” motion. “It’s okay, I know what you mean, and if the pesto wrap’s one of your favorites, then I guess it must be good, and just the wrap is good for now. My mom won’t be happy if I don’t eat much at dinner.”

Eva beamed again, and Ivan felt better. She was a little all over the place, but she wore the whole of her heart on her sleeve. Ivan liked that about her.

As Eva handed over Ivan’s change and got started on making the wrap, she talked about her mom and how she’d wanted her to go into nursing like her and thought art was a useless major, so she was minoring in psychology to try and make her happy—only her mom thought psychology was useless and equated it to selling snake oil. She never mentioned her dad, so Ivan didn’t bring it up, but she referred to Roland as a “sort-of” cousin again.

“He’s a sort-of cousin, ‘cause we were only step-cousins, technically, but his uncle and my mom divorced two years ago, but we’re still really close. He can be sour and mean, so don’t get mad too much if he gets under your skin…”

Ivan didn’t get many words in edgewise, and he was starting to become uncomfortable with how personal Eva was getting when they’d only first met yesterday. He didn’t want to be rude, though, and there were people here who talked to him like he was already a good friend or even part of the family. It was probably just how Eva was raised, and maybe she didn’t get to talk much, so as soon as anyone showed interest, she dove head-first into conversation.

Two new customers saved Ivan soon as his wrap was ready, and he swallowed a sigh of relief as he thanked Eva and said he’d be happy to meet up with her later.

“That’d be so great!” She bounced slightly again and waved. “G’bye! Have a great day!”

“You, too!”

He left as Eva switched her attention to the two new customers, crooning over the girl’s _Life is Strange_ T-shirt and asking where she’d gotten it.

It was still cold outside, but the wind had died down. All the tables and benches were vacant, and he chose a table in front of the steps leading to the cafeteria and started eating. He checked his phone, seeing that there was still plenty of time before he needed to be in class. He also looked at his schedule again, to remind him of the room number and the professor’s name. 

Dr. Imani Adebayo for _Bible as Literature: New Testament_.

The _Old Testament: Ezra – Malachi_ and _Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Non-Canon_ classes had been full, but Ivan was sure he would have gotten an earful from Viktor and Anya if he’d signed up for the latter anyway.

Signing up for the New Testament class had helped him stay on Viktor’s good side despite attending a secular school. Even though Viktor was an HU alum, he’d been wary of Ivan insisting on attending a secular school instead of the private Christian college in Gulfport. There were also Christian clubs here, and Anya said one of the other college-aged members of their church was starting one. Ivan was probably going to have to figure out which it was, if only to know who to watch out for on campus.

 _“Memorize their faces,”_ Irena had advised. Ivan should listen.

First, though, he needed to learn more about the Bible than that people liked to quote John 3:16 at sporting events. Knowing more about the Gospels and letters Viktor kept going on about from his pulpit would help Ivan play Christian better, he was sure. Otherwise, it’d only be a matter of time before Viktor realized he’d been lying.


	14. Checking on the Kids

_ “[T]here is beauty in darkness in everything. Sorrow in joy, life and death, thorns on the rose. I knew then that I could not escape pain and torment any more than I could give up joy and beauty.” ~ Cate Tiernan in  _ Awakening

Dr. Adebayo was a short, dark-skinned woman with stern eyes but a big smile, her thin braids twisted into a bun atop her head. Ivan wasn’t sure what to make of her at first, but when she pinned a poster for the writing club to one of the bulletin boards flanking the blackboard, he realized she was the professor Dr. Adnan had mentioned. She set her bag and books onto the desk next to the metal podium, which she had to lower somewhat. She couldn’t be taller than Manon.

“If you don’t have the eighty dollars to get the newest edition of this”—she picked up one of her books and held it up for everyone to see—“then _The New Oxford Annotated Bible_ ”—she set the first book down and picked up a red tome—“will be all you really need. A new copy runs for between thirty and forty dollars on Amazon last I checked, and I know y’all like your technology and prefer reading on y’all’s phones, but the footnotes will be much easier to read with a hardcopy, trust me.”

Ivan, sitting in the back again but in the row closest to the door, got out his notebook and pen as Dr. Adebayo started passing out the syllabuses.

“Yes?” she asked when someone on the other side of the classroom raised his hand.

“What if we already got a Bible?” he asked, and some nodded. “I got three, not including those ones the Gideons pass out.”

“Shouldn’t we be using the King James version?” another guy asked. “It’s not accurate otherwise.”

“Don’t start,” the first guy begged, a few others agreeing while someone else agreed that the King James Bible was the only true Bible.

 _Dear God_ , thought Ivan, swallowing an aggravated groan.

Dr. Adebayo’s smile disappeared. “Alright.” She finished passing out the syllabuses and returned to the podium. “Let’s get this straight right now for those of y’all who haven’t taken one of my classes before: This is not a religious class. I don’t care what your religious beliefs are or if you even have any. I don’t care what translation of the Bible your personal preference leans to outside of my class.

“In my class, though, we will be studying the Bible as _literature_ . We will discuss symbolism. We will discuss metaphors. We will discuss narrative and exposition and allegories and context. That is why we’ll be using the Oxford version. It provides notes and a perspective related to academia, which is the perspective we will be taking in this class. Should you wish to use a religious lens when writing your midterm and final essays—which I will discuss more in-depth when we reach that part of the syllabus—then you are free to do so _then_ and not anytime sooner. Any questions? And please raise your hand and wait your turn.”

Several hands shot up, and she called on the first guy that brought up the King James version.

“You expect us to read the Holy Bible like it’s not true?” He sounded like he was walking along the line between confusion and anger.

“I expect y’all to keep an open mind,” Dr. Adebayo corrected. “I expect y’all to be able to push personal feelings aside for an hour three times a week, so as to approach this book from a different perspective. It’s an amazing book with incredible stories and lessons, and the best way to appreciate everything it has to offer is by taking your head out of your ass instead of just ingesting the pages of it that’s being shoved down your throat.”

Some chuckled, but a few sat silently. It looked like some people might be dropping the class before the first quiz.

Some of the hands went down, and Dr. Adebayo pointed at a girl seated up front.

“Are we going to cover any of the non-canonical gospels, or is that only for the other class?” she asked.

“We won’t be covering any in this class, but if you want to cover one for one of your essays, you’re free to do so, but like I said, I’ll go more into the essays later.”

Two hands went down, leaving only two others.

The guy in the desk in front of Ivan got called on and asked, “I was in the Genesis through Second Corinthians class. Should I just use the blog I used for that class for this one, or do I need to make a new one?" 

The last hand went down, showing she’d had the same question.

 _Blog?_ Ivan wondered, and by the muttering, it looked like he wasn’t the only one confused.

“Looks like we’re jumping around in the syllabus,” Dr. Adebayo commented, “but most of y’all know the attendance policy anyway. Most departments have the exact same policy, so turn to the next page, where I’ll explain about the blogs, and to answer your question, Naguib, you can use the same blog, just make sure to title the posts in a way so that everyone knows they’re for this class and not another one.”

Ivan skimmed over the paragraphs covering the blog, seeing that he was expected to make a three-hundred-word-minimum post a week. Each post would cover a topic in the book they were covering, and each student should cover a different topic—first come, first serve.

“What if all the good topics are taken?” someone asked when called on.

“If you can’t find anything worth writing about, read the book again,” Dr. Adebayo responded. “From the significance of numbers to colors to fruit to names, there will be plenty and more to analyze and write about.”

Ivan doubted it, but he’d try to keep an open mind as the professor requested.

Along with writing a post, everyone was expected to leave comments on at least three other blog posts. The comments had to either give meaningful critique, expand on what was said, or say what they’d learned from the post. They couldn’t only leave comments for the same people every time, to make sure no one was left without any comments on any of their posts, and if a post already had five or more comments. Dr. Adebayo suggested looking at other posts to give someone without much feedback attention.

“Whether writing creatively or academically,” said Dr. Adebayo, “bad critique is still critique. It’s silence that traps and stalls progress.”

Some people rolled their eyes or grumbled non-committedly, but a few nodded.

After talking about the blogs, Dr. Adebayo kept her promise and started talking about the midterm and final essays. The first could be written on any biblical book (non-canonical included) or on a book discussing the Bible. This included apologetics like _The Case for Christ_ as well as criticisms like _The Skeptic’s Annotated Bible_. Any topic would have to be approved, though, and like with the blog posts, no two people could cover the same book.

As for the final essay, it would focus on contemporary works—be it a book, show, movie, or song—that alluded to the Bible. As an example, Dr. Adebayo brought up an essay from last year that compared and contrasted the Lord of Light from _A Song of Ice and Fire_ to fundamentalist beliefs concerning Jesus Christ and the Second Coming in the Apocalypse of John.

“Overall, the rules for your essays are pretty flexible,” Dr. Adebayo said. “I’m not going to require any special formats, so long as you cite your sources, and I don’t care if it’s printed, emailed to me, or if you post the essays on your blogs. Just tell me which it’ll be and that it’s handed to me or posted before the deadline. If you need examples, check the blogs I’ve listed in the blog section. The students left them up at my request, and you’ll see that despite the academic perspective, any creative license is still allowed. And please use common sense when using others’ art or photographs. If it’s from a free-use site, link back to it, so I can see you’re not stealing someone’s work.”

Ivan wasn’t sure what he’d do either of his essays on, but there was time to figure it out. He did know, however, that he was going to have to make sure Viktor didn’t find his blog.

* * *

Since Alfred had the day off, he went home after Abnormal Psychology. Alice was still at work, and Marianne wouldn’t be home until around nine. Catsiel was sleeping on the table, where he wasn’t allowed. When Alfred tossed his bomber jacket and backpack onto the couch, Catsiel roused from sleep and looked up at him for a moment.

“Well?” Alfred asked.

After a slow blink, Catsiel lowered his head and went back to sleep.

Sighing, Alfred walked into the breakfast nook from the den. He smiled at Catsiel’s complaint when he rubbed his back, snatching his hand back before the lump of fluff could bite it.

“Consider it getting off easy. You better not have gotten your fur all over the napkins.”

Catsiel made a low sound and got up to turn around before dropping back down to sleep. He’d been even less playful than usual, and Alfred tried to push the thought of something maybe being wrong out of his head. Sure, the furball was old, but he was healthy.

There was leftover quinoa chicken in the fridge, which Alfred grabbed along with a can of Diet Coke. Linnea wanted to come over later to talk about their battle plan for dealing with Ursula in American lit, and she was going to want to talk for a while, so caffeine was a necessity.

He turned on the TV, which could be seen from the table—he didn’t dare go against Marianne’s rule about not eating in the den—and turned on Netflix. He was only a few episodes into _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ ; even though he’d read the books so often that he had full passages memorized as a kid, he still held onto hope that Uncle Monty lived.

When Count Olaf/Stephano broke the fourth wall to state his preference for shows over movies, Alfred paused it to rinse the now-empty Tupperware and put it into the dishwasher. He went back to the fridge to retrieve the last cupcake left over from the New Year’s party before it became inedible, the Windex-blue frosting hard and sugary sweet.

“Hey!” Alfred hissed at Catsiel, who was about to steal a lick of Alfred’s Diet Coke. “Nuh-uh, no caffeine for cats.”

Catsiel made a low-pitched meow as he was pushed aside, but he complied and went back to sleep as Alfred un-paused his show.

Soon as it started again, Alfred’s cell phone played the first line of the _Harry Potter_ theme—Matthew’s text tone.

Licking frosting off his fingers, Alfred went to retrieve his cellphone from his backpack, half paying attention to the show as he read his brother’s text:

 _Hey, Gil and I have to stay late, and Imre,_ _  
_ _Kiku, Yon Su, Madeline, and Janice are all_ _  
_ _out. Mind feeding the kids and making sure_   
Gilbird and Eucalyptus are okay? Thanks!

It was pretty rare for all of them to be out at the same time, but it was possible that Imre and Madeline had dates or were working late, and Janice and Yon Su tried to have a date night at least once a week. Kiku would probably be at the campus until late like Marianne, especially since the math department randomly decided to switch all of them to the new homework site, and there were already connection problems.

“Try to be good,” Alfred told Catsiel as he put his Diet Coke back into the fridge. “I gotta go check on the other fur babies.”

Catsiel flicked his tail in acknowledgment but otherwise didn’t move.

Alfred texted Linnea where he was going and that they could just talk about the group project later. He slipped his phone into his back pocket and turned off the TV after putting on his bomber jacket. He grabbed his wallet and went to the laundry room to take the keys to Marianne’s Civic off the hook.

Luckily, she’d carpooled with another professor this morning, or Alfred would be out of luck. Matthew’s and Gil’s farmhouse would be an hour-long trip if he walked, and Alfred wasn’t sure if he loved his brother and brother-in-law enough to do that when the temperature was thirty-and-dropping.

Briar Road was a long, winding dirt road a couple blocks away from Patchwork Spirit, and driving down it after dark always felt like being in a horror movie. There were no streetlights, and trees arched over it, as though trying to blot out the stars. In winter, at least, they didn’t have enough leaves to be successful, but it was still creepy back here.

The light by the front door at the farmhouse had been left on, at least, and the creepy feeling unwound from Alfred’s muscles as he parked on the concrete slab just off the road. The gardens on the two-story house’s left was withered, but it would be full of vegetables come Lughnasadh. The blueberry bushes off to the right, between the house and barb wire fence, would soon be heavy, too—same for the overgrown blackberry bushes out back and the fig tree hanging over part of the fence.

Tiny goats bleated as Alfred approached, and he could already hear Eucalyptus barking. Gilbert must have left his and Matthew’s window open, because he could hear Gilbird, too, the cockatoo screeching.

“Wait a sec, y’all,” Alfred told the goats. He found the lantern on the corner of the wraparound porch closest to the fenced-in area, and he took it and turned it on. There was a tall hook further down, just inside the gate.

The three kids bleated louder as Alfred quickly slipped into the gate, having to push the goats back with his legs. Baphomet head-butted the side of Alfred’s knee as he hung up the lantern and turned up its light as bright as it could go.

“That’s what we get for naming you after a demon,” Alfred muttered. It didn’t hurt, at least, but Baphomet’s dad, Billy, had hit him hard in the ass before, knocking him flat on his face before running off and bleating something like laughter.

Beel, Baphomet’s brother, kept a healthy distance while still clapping his hooves on the ground excitedly.

“I like you more,” Alfred told him as he headed towards the barn.

Beyond it was the silo, which had been refurbished as Kiku’s tower when he moved in last year. The light was on, and the light outside the barn’s doors had been left on, as well. Billy, Hawkeye, and Hermione stirred as Alfred entered the barn, having to give the door a shove to make it wide enough to walk through. The three kids followed, Baphomet trying to push him in faster with Beel behind him and Death the Kid taking the rear.

Hermione was the last to get up as Alfred took feed out of the metal bin in the corner and poured a few pitcher-fulls into the trough. The barn was chilly thanks to the opened door, but it was otherwise cozy in here. The barn was sectioned in half with a wall, painted by Marianne, Alfred, and Feliciano to resemble a tree with sakura blooming, some of the pink flowers drifting down and caught in a breeze. On the other side of the wall was Janice’s and Yon Su’s studio, where they did woodworking.

Above was their loft, the staircase on the outside, by the entrance to their studio. They’d decided to move out when Madeline and Juniper moved into the room next to theirs in the house, and Juniper said one morning that she heard ghosts moaning at night.

Goats fed and left with plenty of water, Alfred got out of the barn, leaving the door open a crack. The kids ignored him now that his job was done, and Eucalyptus and Gilbird had quieted down. Nearby critters could be heard scuttling through dead leaves, and an owl hooted from somewhere nearby.

Alfred smiled. The dirt road may feel like a horror movie setting, but the farm always felt like home. Thanksgivings here were full of laughs and stories and hugs, and while he held a grudge against Billy, Alfred remembered when Uncle Mik and Uncle Svante brought him over as a housewarming gift. The little guy had been skittish and cautious, bonding with Matthew after Mikael and Svante left. Billy never left his side. He was even allowed to stay inside at night for a while.

Come spring, they’d have some game hens and a rooster, and Madeline half-joked that she’d love to save up for them to play out her childhood fantasy of owning a horse. They had the room, and there was a breeder by Tylertown, Gilbert had found.

The house’s backdoor was unlocked, the handle needing to be replaced. Gilbert had kicked it when coming home drunk once, and he had somehow knocked the locking mechanism off-kilter.

Eucalyptus started barking again and trotted into the kitchen as Alfred closed the door behind him and turned on the light. He then sighed and took off his sneakers and shoved the door open again to drop his shoes outside. Yon Su, Kiku, and Matthew had gotten onto him enough about wearing his shoes in the house.

“Hey, girl,” he cooed as Eucalyptus’s barks turned into excited panting. She nearly knocked him down trying to get love, the large shepherd-mix almost one-hundred pounds of fluff and joy. “Ya miss me?”

He kneeled down to scratch her on the head, along the back, and over her belly for a while before getting up to check her food and water. Both were empty, and Alfred let Eucalyptus outside before heading to the laundry room off to the left, past the large, stainless steel fridge. The door was closed and needed to be lifted a bit to open, the handle jostling as though ready to fall off. The huge bag of dog food was on top of the front-loading washer, a measuring cup inside with a red line showing how much Eucalyptus should get.

The food was special for dogs with diabetes, and after she was finished eating, Alfred would have to give her an insulin shot, which he never looked forward to. He hated needles. He’d needed someone else to give him his T shots at first, before he switched to the gel.

Eucalyptus would take a while to find the perfect spot to mark her territory, so Alfred went upstairs after filling the bowls. Gilbird started shrieking soon as the stair halfway up the narrow staircase squeaked, and when Alfred opened the door and wasn’t Gilbert or Matthew, Gilbird puffed himself up, feathers on his head spread like a white crown.

“Scary,” Alfred deadpanned as he turned on the light. He wasn’t the biggest fan of birds, and Gilbird was a grumpy old man Gilbert had inherited after his dad passed away.

Gilbird was fifty-four, and it wasn’t until just this month that he finally accepted Matthew as a permanent addition to the family. Everyone else was an enemy. Even Gilbert’s mom said she’d never been accepted by the cockatoo, only tolerated—and only because she’d given him peanuts every day.

Holding the ends of his jacket and raising his arms to make himself bigger, Alfred made a caw-like sound and stood on his right foot, his left knee brought up to his chest.

Gilbird settled reluctantly, and Alfred smiled triumphantly as he went to get seed balls from the top drawer of the dresser next to the door. The water was fine, and as a treat for screaming only a little, Alfred even gave Gilbird a peanut.

The feel of his taloned foot when he grabbed the peanut made Alfred think, _Yep, modern dinosaurs_.

Through the half-open window, which Alfred went to close, he heard Eucalyptus start barking. Headlights shone through the trees, and after a moment, Alfred recognized Yon Su’s silver Prius. Gilbird started screaming again, and Alfred ignored him as he left, reaching the den downstairs just as Janice and Yon Su entered the house with Eucalyptus dancing around them.

“How dare you leave our baby out in the cold!” Janice teased as she tugged Alfred into a tight hug. She was still warm from the car heater, and she smelled like barbeque. Her short, dark brown hair was swept back from her face, and her green eyes sparkled with mirth more than usual. “Oh, I can’t wait to share the good news!”

Yon Su had a huge smile on his face as he tossed his boots onto the porch before shutting the door. Eucalyptus barked, as though already having heard the good news.

“What is it?” asked Alfred, and he jumped when Yon Su finally burst before his girlfriend could say it:

“I’M GOING TO BE A DAD!” he cheered, hands going up, and he ran over to scoop Janice up and spin her around.

Jumping back, Alfred’s face had gone slack with shock, but when the words and his friends’ reactions connected in his head, a grin blossomed across his face.

“Since when?” Alfred felt breathless, and even more air left his lungs as Yon Su hugged him next, crushing his ribs in the process. The man was stronger than he looked.

“I’m just three weeks along,” Janice gushed, accent wavering. She was originally from New Wales and had started to lose her Australian accent after a decade of living in Mississippi, but it came back when she got excited. She squealed again, tears streaking down her cheeks as she hugged Alfred and Yon Su at the same time. “I’m actually going to be a mum! I can’t believe it!”

Eucalyptus barked again, lying on the couch now.

“You’ll never be replaced, baby,” Janice assured, laughing as she wiped at her tears.

Alfred hugged her again, making sure to mind her belly. “Peter and Juniper are gonna have a baby sibling, then?”

He wanted to talk about Peter like he was already Matthew’s and Gilbert’s son; maybe the more he did it, the more the Gods would help make it become truth.

A hint of sadness entered Yon Su’s dark brown eyes, but his smile stayed in place as he nodded, long, raven bangs falling over his face. “To join forces and pick on, for sure.”

“Oh, hush!” Janice exclaimed, already protective. “Bullies are everywhere, but it should never be at home.”

The three continued the conversation in the kitchen, Janice bringing up possible names for Yon Su and Alfred to judge.


	15. Ghost-written Clickbait

_ “At heart we are all powerful, beautiful, and capable of changing the world with our bare hands.” ~ Dianne Sylvan _

It was obvious that after seventeen years of having the bathroom to herself that Natalya wasn’t used to sharing. There was only one sink, and since it was judged that Ivan was male and therefore only needed soap, deodorant, and toothpaste, Natalya got the lion’s share of cabinet and drawer space.

Natalya and Anya had left early for a flagpole service at the high school before classes started, and Viktor was at the church office for an emergency counselling session. That left Ivan alone in the house, and the silence was eerie.

Back home, he, Nicholas, Kateryna, and Thieving Bitch had shared a condo. Thieving Bitch would dream of Nicholas finding his Big Break and bringing in the bucks that would put them into a McMansion, but Kateryna and Ivan had liked the close space. It had never been quiet or lonely.

Ivan didn’t like space, despite his cool exterior. The walls he put up were new, and he didn’t like them. Yet, he found it hard to take them down.

Thieving Bitch would say he was finally growing up, but, then, soon as her husband died, she took all the money he’d left behind and found a new husband in Santa Monica, pretending she’d never had step-children, who had needed to foot the bill for the funeral and burial. It didn’t matter what she thought.

“Goddammit,” Ivan hissed, biting his tongue soon as the word left his mouth.

He froze, as though he expected Viktor to appear out of thin air and kick him out.

When nothing happened, Ivan let out a slow breath and carefully picked up the thin blades that had fallen into the tub. The plastic cover had fallen off the top of Natalya’s razor, and the blades had been knocked loose somehow. Ivan threw them away and made a mental note to remind Natalya to get another if she didn’t have extras.

Thankfully, he didn’t cut himself and didn’t have to worry about slicing up his feet while he showered. He kept it quick, not liking that he was taller than the shower head and needed to duck most of the time.

As he toweled off, his cellphone rang from the counter, charging by the sink. It was Eduard, and Ivan put it on speaker as he finished drying off. His hair kept falling over his eyes, and Ivan started thinking about where to go to get it cut.

“Remind me why I thought a seven-thirty class was a good idea,” Eduard groggily whined.

By the sound of the steamer and grinder in the background, Ivan figured Eduard was at Sound Bite, a café near their old campus. It had a radio show motif and one of those old jukeboxes. Ivan remembered the day where the manager discovered John Mulaney and had the jukebox play “What’s New Pussycat” all day with one break of “It’s Not Unusual” every two hours. Ivan, Eduard, and Krisjanis hung out there all day that day, working on a _Once Upon a Time_ fanfiction they were co-writing back then.

Ivan smiled at the memory as he got dressed. “Something about wanting to keep your nights free, since that’s when your ‘creative juices are at their peak.’”

Eduard groaned. “It hasn’t even been a full week, and I hate myself. The commute makes it worse.”

Due to their old school raising tuition costs (again), Eduard had been forced to transfer to a college almost an hour away, lest he be buried even deeper in student loan debt. Only Krisjanis still went to their old college, but he’d always been more Eduard’s friend than Ivan’s, so Ivan hadn’t really heard from him since moving. He hadn’t heard from most of his old friends since the funeral.

Then, other than Eduard, he and his friends had only talked during D&D campaigns. He knew more about their characters’ backstories than he did about any of them, now that he thought about it.

Ivan’s smile disappeared.

“You’ll acclimate and be one of those weirdly-happy morning people in no time,” Ivan promised, managing a chuckle.

“Mmhmm… One sec.” Eduard pulled the phone away from his mouth, the sound of the grinder louder as he ordered his usual, plus three extra shots of espresso and an energy packet. He assured the barista that he knew what he was ordering, adding a comment that he’d even sign a form saying he understood the risks of replacing his blood with caffeine.

“Try not to die, please. I like you for some reason,” Ivan told him when Eduard announced he could talk again.

“This analytics class will kill me before the coffee does,” Eduard assured. “Anyway, help me wake up by talking about Charmed One. You said his name’s Alfred Boner?”

Ivan hated that he almost laughed at that. Eduard’s humor hadn’t grown up much since middle school, and only he could still get Ivan to laugh at “wenis.”

“Bonnefoy,” Ivan corrected, smiling as he recalled Alfred’s bright blue eyes, red-framed glasses, and purple hair.

“You really do fall hard for those French boys, huh?”

Ivan’s smile disappeared again. Eduard didn’t know what happened between him and Louis. Not the gritty details. Ivan felt too stupid and guilty and angry to talk about it. Only Kateryna knew the whole story. It was the only secret she kept from Manon.

“We haven’t even talked since I got that stuff for Nat,” Ivan responded. He had gone this long without telling Eduard about Louis. He wasn’t going to do it now—not over the phone when it was barely past five in the morning in California, anyway.

“Well, if things go right, you won’t be doing much talking anyway,” Eduard teased.

“Uh-huh….” A corner of Ivan’s mouth rose up as he started drying his hair, keeping the dryer on low, so he could still talk. “Anyway, there might be problems. One of the girls in our group for the project is, like, his number one enemy for some reason. He and his friend were glaring at her all through class.” He combed his mostly-dry hair away from his face and borrowed one of Natalya’s headbands to keep it back. “And his other friend is in one of my other classes. I looked at her, and a girl next to me talked like I was checking her out. Pretty sure Alfred has heard about that by now.”

“You sure your new school’s not called Degrassi?” It sounded like Eduard’s mouth was full, probably with a Castello cashew chew.

“Cute.” Ivan dug through Natalya’s brushes, hair clips, and headbands to find one of his razors and shaving cream.

Eduard changed the subject, either taking the hint that Ivan didn’t want to keep talking about it or deciding that any juicy details wouldn’t be available until later in the semester. “Are Manon and Kat still planning on getting married at Disneyland in October? Since you’re closer to Florida now, though, I’d vote Disney World. Epcot has Drink Around the World. Krisjanis says the Tangier’s Breeze in Morocco really slaps.”

“Disneyland’s still their destination as far as I know, but Disney World would make sense with our current location, yeah,” Ivan replied. “I’ll ask when I meet Manon in a bit. Leave it to her to make me wake up early just to talk. Kat’s out job-hunting.”

“What’s she hoping for?”

“Anything but waitressing. The Thing really soured the experience. She doesn’t even like _eating_ at restaurants much anymore.”

And when she did eat out, she left a tip that practically matched the price of the meal, even if the service hadn’t been good.

Eduard laughed. “She’ll find something. She got her Bachelor’s while acting, so that’s gotta count for something.”

“Well, that’s what we keep telling ourselves.”

Eduard’s laughter fell flat after the first exhale. “My major’s CS, so I have at least a little more hope than you Humanities nerds. But you already have a following online—”

“For _fanfiction_.”

“It counts,” Eduard asserted, sounding more awake. “Real people read it and know your writing, so once you start publishing, they’ll follow. Plenty of them have already shown interest in buying stuff from you and have been asking you to open a Ko-fi for _ages_. Anyway, I’m procrastinating leaving for class, now, so I’ll talk to you later. Try not to snap and kill step-fuck and his lemmings.”

“Funny. Talk to you later.”

Eduard hung up first, and Ivan finished getting ready. Next to the bowl and packet of instant oatmeal left on the counter was a note:

_“So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don’t fall! No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.” 1 Corinthians 10:12-13_

_You have faced trials that seem like too much for someone your age, but God will give you the strength to pull through._

_Viktor and Mom_

It was a kind sentiment. Ivan remembered what Viktor said to him after finding the picture of the Winter Solstice poster on his cellphone:

“I am being much more lenient with you than I would be if anyone else were staying here, for Anya’s sake, and for Natalya’s sake. And for your sake. I know you have been through something terrible, but I will not hear you using that as an excuse for rebellious behavior. I expect you to lean on God and find the path away from temptation, and remember you can always come to me for help to lead you towards that path, if need be. Am I clear?”

Ivan wasn’t out from under the microscope yet.

 _Eight months, and Nat’s eighteen_ , he thought as he pocketed the oatmeal packet and stuck the bowl into the dishwasher. _Eight months. Eight months._

He kept thinking this as he gathered his things and headed out, but he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to make it that long without getting caught. He didn’t have Natalya’s years of learning how to sneak around and build up a wall of ice.

Feliciano’s had a small sitting area in the front corner with twin circular tables in the middle of four club chairs and a two-seat couch. Next to the couch was a table holding books and pamphlets, and a bulletin board hung above it boasted various activities going on in the area—some old, based on the poster advertising Patchwork Spirit’s open Winter Solstice circle.

On one of the chairs was a coffee- and tea-stained manuscript with red, purple, and green ink notes in the margins and the backs of the paper. An old, chewed-on plastic straw from Starbucks was being used as a bookmark, and Ivan picked the manuscript up, already knowing what the title on the front was: _Improving on Perfection: Tips and Tricks of a Washed-Up Child Actor Turned YouTube Midtier Star (And More Ghost-written Clickbait)._

Manon still wasn’t sure about the title, which she’d proposed half as a joke, but Ivan and Kateryna liked it.

“Nuh-uh!” Manon called as she came over to the seating area with two large mugs of coffee.

The paper cups were only used for to-go orders, whereas mugs were used for sit-in orders, to reduce waste.

“I know, I know,” Ivan chuckled, setting the manuscript back onto the chair. He kissed Manon on the forehead as he took his cinnamon dolce latte from her, smiling as she playfully pinched his cheek. “This is the second draft? Or third? Do you have any of the comics done yet?”

Manon moved the manuscript to the table closest to her and sighed as she sat. She licked a bit of whipped cream that had started to drip over the rim of her mug.

“Artist had to quit,” Manon groaned. “There’s a family emergency—she had to set up a Go Fund Me page emergency. I donated and shared the page, so I hope everything will be okay money-wise, but the publisher wants this draft by August, so that hopefully the final can be in print by next April, and then there’s all the wedding stuff to plan. I knew getting married at Disneyland would be expensive, but now there’s the cost of travel, and Kat hasn’t been earning since _Cherish_ and still has student debt. Not to mention we’re both lucky to have both arms and legs after what we paid for that stupid closet of a place back home.”

She didn’t mention Kateryna emptying her savings by more than half to help pay for the funeral and burial. She hadn’t wanted Manon to help, but she’d allowed Manon to handle expenses for the move.

“Kat would understand if you just had a small ceremony,” Ivan suggested after taking a sip of coffee. “Then you two could go to Disneyland for the Honeymoon. Eduard also suggested Disney World. Epcot has a Drink Around the World thing.”

Manon’s eyes lit up at the mention of Epcot, but rolled her lips inward as she glared at the manuscript as though it had bitten her earlier.

“And if you want, I met an art major at college,” Ivan added. “I could talk to her if she knows anyone in class offering commissions.”

He wasn’t sure if Manon and Eva would get along—despite the vlogs, Manon was pretty private and would be put off by how quickly Eva dove into personal topics—but Eva probably knew someone who’d be willing to draw up the comic pages for Manon’s book.

Manon sighed again, but she looked more relaxed than earlier. “Thank you.” She looked his way and smiled. “Give her my work email, so she or someone can send me their examples and we can negotiate price.”

“Got it.” Ivan smiled. “Has Kat found any jobs yet?”

Shifting in the seat to face Ivan more easily, Manon slurped up the rest of her mocha’s whipped cream. “She has an interview at an Ulta in Gulfport, a Ross at the strip mall at the edge of town, and a Sephora and magazine in Biloxi.”

“Magazine?”

“It’s a feminist magazine with a focus on LGBT issues, probably with more of a lesbian slant going by the name. It’s called _Lavender Menace_.”

“I wonder which job Kat is hoping for,” Ivan sing-songed.

“According to the Glassdoor reviews, the editor’s a hardass, but so’s Kat when she wants to be.” Manon smiled proudly. “She’ll get it.” Her smile turned sly as she took another sip of coffee. “But now let’s talk about you.”

“We always talk about me,” Ivan deadpanned. “The subject change was nice.”

“I met your witch boy, Alfred,” Manon sang, smirking at Ivan’s sudden flush. “He’s such a sweet boy. Nothing like that jackass at your old school.”

“Can we not—”

“I won’t mention Lord Fuckwad anymore, don’t worry. I don’t need to be angry all day.” Manon waved a hand through the air as though cutting through all thoughts of Louis. “Anyway, he’s very sweet and has good taste in YouTubers. I approve.”

“Manon—”

“Oh, don’t worry; I didn’t tell him about you. I just fished around a bit to see if he’s single.”

“Manon—”

“And he is!” Manon smiled proudly, seeming to enjoy how red she was making Ivan. “But even though I never mentioned you, I asked him if he’d be willing to be in a video I’m scripting, so maybe if you just happened to come by to bring a prop I’d forgotten…”

“Oh my God.” Ivan set his coffee on the table to rub his temples, elbows on his knees.

“I’m planning to film it in a couple weeks, if all goes to plan, so make sure you read my texts.” Manon ruffled his hair. “Try to find a barber by then. The emo skater boy look doesn’t suit you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue if there's a lesbian magazine called Lavender Menace (wouldn't be surprised if there was), but if there is, this fictional magazine isn't connected to it. Just putting that out there.


	16. French Fries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vilma = 2p!nyo!Cuba  
> Olha = 2p!Ukraine

_ “I’m in no hurry: the sun and the moon aren’t, either. / Nobody goes faster than the legs they have. / If where I want to go is far away, I’m not there in an instant.” ~ Alberto Caeiro _

“Brendan, right?” Ivan asked as he sat in the same seat as Monday.

The freshman was already seated, poured over a thick paperback.

“Huh?” Brendan looked up, dusty brown bangs falling over his turquoise eyes. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you! Ivan, yeah?” His bright smile was back, contagious as it was on Tuesday.

“That’s right. What are you reading?”

Brendan showed Ivan the cover: _All That Jazz: The Axeman of New Orleans_.

“True crime?” Ivan wouldn’t have pegged Brendan as someone interested in that sort of thing, but then he remembered Brendan saying he wanted to study criminal justice. “I think I remember hearing about that guy. He said one night he’d spare the lives of people playing jazz, right?”

Admittedly, he only knew that about the serial killer thanks to _Buzzfeed Unsolved_ and _American Horror Story: Coven_.

“Yep!” Brendan looked excited to talk about this, using one of his pencils as a bookmark. “This book focuses on profiling the killer. I’d love to work as one for the police or even the FBI or something.”

“Good luck with that pipsqueak,” a guy scoffed.

When Ivan looked up and glared at him, though, the guy cleared his throat and quickly scuttled to his seat. Being six-four with wide shoulders and Resting Bitch Face Syndrome had its perks on occasion.

“I’m used to it,” Brendan chuckled, smile now strained as he looked at the floor. “I skipped a couple grades in elementary school and then graduated high school a year early, so I’m used to being teased for being smaller than everyone.”

Ivan blinked. “So, you’re fifteen?”

“Well, fourteen.” Brendan’s smile was sheepish. “I’ll be fifteen in September.”

“That’s amazing,” Ivan assured, smiling when Brendan beamed again. “Don’t pay attention to the idiots saying otherwise.”

Brendan nodded, and Eva and Roland arrived, arguing over whether _Supernatural_ should have ended with season five or not.

“And miss characters like Charlie?!” Eva exclaimed.

“Miss watching her die and having to listen to you whine about it for three weeks? Hell yeah.” Roland groused as he plopped down in his seat behind Brendan. He was wearing black sclera contacts today, which was what had probably prompted the conversation about _Supernatural_.

“I did _not_ whine for three weeks!” Eva sat down and seemed to suddenly remember Charlie’s death scene, making a choking groan sound. “Ugh! Why?!”

Not sorry to break up the argument, Ivan turned around. “Hey, Eva. My friend is looking to commission an artist for some comic pages. She prefers really stylized art styles like the Tintin comics but has her editor breathing down her neck, so I don’t think she’s too picky about styles right now. You know anyone?”

Roland mouthed, “Thank you” as Eva gasped, completely forgetting about the argument and Charlie’s death.

“I’m drawing a webcomic!” Her face suddenly fell. “I’d hate to put it on hiatus again so soon, especially now that I have a Patreon set up.” She pressed her pastel blue lips together and looked up at the ceiling as she talked, more people filing into the classroom. “Um… Michelle maybe? Her style’s inspired by Frank Miller, but I don’t know if she has commissions open right now… Artemisia? But I think she only does fine art…”

They were all stirred to attention when Dr. Djimou slammed the door shut and announced that they had until he finished his coffee to complete today’s pop quiz on the first half of chapter one.

Ivan had forgotten about the reading.

Great.

“I’ll let you know if anyone’s up for it,” Eva whispered, leaning forward so Ivan could hear.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Ivan quickly got out his notebook and wrote down Manon’s work email on it. “Have them send her examples—two or three images, and she wants to negotiate the price. Something about upfront pay plus book sale percentages.”

Eva squeaked excitement and took the paper as Roland handed her a paper and pen, scolding her for forgetting her backpack again. The tone wiped her smile away, but she didn’t say anything as she took the items from him.

Dr. Djimou lowered the projector screen and told the guy sitting closest to the door to turn off the light. The projector came on soon as the lights went off, and it didn’t take long for Dr. Djimou to get his laptop connected.

“To save trees and money, your quizzes will be done this way,” he said as he pushed his fez back into place. “The slides are on a timer, and if you don’t have an answer written by the time the next one is up, life’s tough, get a helmet. All quizzes are short answer, like I told you on Monday, and you’ll have a quiz every Wednesday, so try to remember to do the readings.”

Ivan hated short answer questions. He was going to fail this first quiz; he just knew it.

It was looking like a great day already.

Each slide had a timer counting down the bottom right-hand corner, which made Ivan stress even more about answering correctly and quickly. He remembered the topics of the first three questions from his 101 class, though, which helped boost his confidence. He didn’t know anything about the others, and Brendan whipping through each answer like he knew them beforehand wasn’t helping him feel good.

He remembered what Brendan said about being bullied, though, and tried to squash his envy. If necessary, he could always ask him to be his tutor.

 _Tutored by a kid whose voice hasn’t even dropped yet_ , a part of his brain laughed, and Ivan realized he’d missed what the sixth question said entirely.

 _All that matters is that he knows his shit_ , Ivan told the negative part of his brain. _And that he can help me know mine_.

The rest of class went by more smoothly; Dr. Djimou’s jokes weren’t forced and followed the lesson well. He teased some of the other students, but he wasn’t cruel with any of it and answered questions clearly.

“Make sure to do those readings!” Dr. Djimou called as everyone gathered their things. “Even if you bomb one or two of your exams, you should at least pass if you ace all the quizzes. However, even if you ace the exams, missing too many questions on too many quizzes can stomp you down a letter grade. Keep that in mind in case you want to get lazy. Personally, I don’t care. I’m not the one paying through the nose for something that should be free to you, but that’s a debate for another day.”

One student started to argue that last point when Dr. Djimou said, “I said that’s a debate for another day. Now, I have a class on drugs to get to. Good day.”

The professor rushed out, forgetting his laptop and returning for it as Ivan left the classroom.

“See you later, Ivan!” Brendan sang as he walked towards the behaviorism lab.

“See you later!”

Ivan made it to statistics with plenty of time to spare. Dr. Honda was already at his desk, typing away at his laptop as he waited for the alarm on his phone to go off. Once it did, he’d shut and lock the door. He wore glasses that looked too large for his face, and the papers by his laptop made Ivan think there was going to be a quiz in this class, too.

Great.

This classroom had long tables in place of desks like the physical psychology classroom, but there were more people in this class, so it was usually four per table rather than two or three. The room was already half-full, people talking about the homework site, other classes, the writing exam, and other topics Ivan wasn’t listening to. He took out his notebook and the pages for today’s chapter, which were connected using a detached binder ring. Since the book was loose leaf, he felt this was the better option, not wanting to lug the entire thing everywhere three days a week.

As he started skimming over the pages, he noticed a curtain of pale, almost white hair appear in front of him.

“Yo.” It was Maria, still holding onto her cane.

She propped it up in such a way that her chin could rest on its curve as she bent forward in her seat. Her denim jacket—geeky and LGBT buttons attached to the lapels—opened to show a grey shirt that said _If the DM Smiles It’s Already Too Late_ as well as a necklace with a charm Ivan recognized from the Zelda games. Maria’s cheeks were ruddy, and her hands looked to be trembling slightly. Cold? Or was this part of that dyso-something he heard that guy in their writing workshop mention yesterday?

“Hey,” Ivan returned, trying for a smile that faltered when it wasn’t returned.

“Here’s your food, Your Highness,” a guy with spiked-up blond hair said as he placed a small plate of fries and large Gatorade on the table in front of Maria. “May I be dismissed for organic chemistry?”

“You’re dismissed,” Maria responded, eyes closed as she waved her hand as though shooing a fly.

The guy with spiked-up hair cracked a smile and bowed. A girl with a cloud of dark, curly hair, half of it done in cornrow braids, sat where she got a clear view of his ass and wolf-whistled.

“He’s spoken for by my girl!” a girl on the other side of the classroom called, and the curly-haired girl let out an exaggerated giggle and fanned herself as the guy turned to blow her a kiss.

“If you’re done,” said Dr. Honda as he kept typing, “It’s nearing time for my class to start, so listen to your friend and dismiss yourself, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Mathias clacked his feet together as he stood at attention and saluted.

“At ease!” a guy with tattoo sleeves and wearing basketball shorts despite the temperature outside called, and Maria’s friend lowered his arm to his side and marched out.

“I can’t tell if he saluted with the wrong hand on purpose or not,” the curly-haired girl laughed, unwinding her sparkling, gold scarf from around her neck. “Julchen, ask Linny if I can borrow him one day.”

Julchen?

Maria turned away from Ivan to speak to the curly-haired girl. “You know Linnea, Vilma.”

At the same time, the girl on the other side of the room that spoke earlier said, “My girl will gut you, Vilma!”

Ivan looked over at the girl. She towered over the people around her, and she sat at the middle table, by the wall, which she leaned against. She wore a ripped skirt, hitched up so as to show off her long legs, which were covered by inverted cross-and-rose stockings that tucked into scuffed combat boots. Her constellation-decorated batwing blouse was sheer, showing a black tank top underneath, and how she managed to wear that so comfortably when the high today was thirty-five degrees, Ivan could not conceive.

“You ain’t her girl, Olha!” Julchen told her, rolling her eyes. “Linnea’s straight; get over it.”

“I’m over it!” Olha called back, combing her raven hair back with her long, matte black fingernails. “It’s _her_ that needs to let _me_ go!”

Was this the same Linnea in Ivan’s American literature class?

Dr. Honda slamming the door shut got everyone’s attention, and as though a spell was cast, everyone quieted and faced forward. Julchen ate her fries throughout class, and despite Dr. Honda saying food wasn’t allowed in the classroom on Monday, he didn’t say anything about it. Ivan figured it had to do with whatever illness she had, though he couldn’t think of any diseases that would make French fries a necessity—Gatorade he could maybe see, with the electrolytes.

He wasn’t a doctor, though, so he’d stay in his lane and just pay attention to Dr. Honda. If he and Julchen got to know each other more, she’d probably tell him. He shouldn’t assume before knowing anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's wondering, the French fries themselves aren't because of Julchen's illness. She needs the salt. For people with dysautonomia, salt and fluids are recommended to increase blood volume. One of my friends would carry around salt packets in her purse in case she needed them (Julchen does this too; it just hasn't come up yet), but typically when she was having a day when her lightheadedness was getting pretty bad, she'd munch on French fries. She's eating, filling her stomach, but she's also getting the salt she needs. So that's why Julchen's eating fries, and since Kiku already knows about her illness, he allows it.


	17. Commission

_ “Nothing is ever lost as time passes, it merely metamorphoses into something as wonderful or, in some cases, into something even better than before.” ~ Carole Carlton _

Alfred wasn’t happy with his sketchbook drawing, but he had to turn something in. The prompt had been _Beginning_.

He loved his mom, but he didn’t like how vague she was with her assignments. Dr. Shikibu at least had been more specific for their weekly sketchbook drawings. Her assignments had been hard—Alfred had hated the water distortion painting—but she was clear about what she wanted and expected, even if she was strict and was called Dr. She-Devil for her harsh critiques.

Marianne was closer to the stereotypical Bob Ross-esque art teacher, moved more by feeling and wanting her students to follow suit. She preferred leading the design workshops and independent study classes, but she’d been asked to take on the figure drawing class this semester while Dr. Nkrumah took time off to recover from labor and spend time with her babies.

Alfred loved all that about Marianne when he watched her work, but it was aggravating when he was her student. He liked having structure, much as his appearance might suggest otherwise.

“It’s not bad,” Eva admonished when Alfred showed her the first page of his class sketchbook. “And at least you drew something that actually makes sense. I ended up just drawing a self-portrait with me in my work uniform.”

“That does make sense,” Alfred assured her as they went to take their sketchbooks to the desk in the back of the room. The new prompt was already on the board, so Alfred took a picture with his phone after leaving his sketchbook.

 _Music_ . Better than _beginning_ , anyway. All Alfred had been able to think of for that was a flower starting to bud. Flowers were one of the few things he was good at drawing well, and he tended to default to what he was comfortable with when he couldn’t think of anything else.

The model entered the classroom as Eva and Alfred returned to their desk-easels, and Eva gasped and suddenly dug through her purse—she must have forgotten her backpack again.

“Hey, is Michelle still taking commissions?” Eva asked, taking out a slip of notebook paper from the muzzle pocket of her cat head-shaped purse. “Or Margarethe? Or… I can’t remember his name. Korean guy? Hot wife?”

“Yon Su?” Alfred chuckled and took the slip of paper, reading over the e-mail address on it.

“Yeah! Him! You said he’s an artist?”

“Him and his ‘hot wife’ both are, but wood is their medium—not that kind.” Alfred tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t keep his mouth from curving into a childish grin as Eva put her pencil case on her desk after having held it in front of the fly of her jeans.

Wiping away a tear as her giggles subsided, Eva asked, “You never know with artists, right? Anyway, this guy in my psych class said his friend’s looking for artists to commission for comic pages. I forgot to ask if his friend wants colored pages or monochrome or lineart only, but I guess his friend can, like, specify once she finds an artist she wants to work with.”

“He say anything about price?” Alfred pocketed the slip of paper as Marianne clapped for everyone’s attention.

“She wants to negotiate rates in email, he said,” Eva whispered as they took their places. “I think she’s publishing a book. I wanted to take it, but I’m too busy and don’t want to put _Whisper Your Name_ on hiatus again.”

Eva’s webcomic had been put on weeks-long hiatuses no less than five times since its inception last year. He worried she was going to end up losing more followers if the trend kept up, which would lead to even longer hiatuses and finally her quitting, like what happened with her last webcomic—though spending over a month in the psych ward hadn’t helped her numbers and motivation.

“I can ask Michelle and Margarethe,” Alfred said in a low voice as Marianne stood up on the platform in the middle of the half-circle of desks. The model stood off to the side, waiting for his cue. “My mom might know some people, too.”

“Okay, everyone!” Marianne called out, and Alfred and Eva quieted. “As y’all know, the spring gallery at the end of the semester will be in May. This semester, the department head wants to try opening the gallery up to _all_ art major students, not just third-plus year students. She’s hoping this will galvanize y’all into getting portfolios in order earlier instead of waiting until the last minute. Trust me, I’ve been there, and it took years to grow all my hair back. I’ll have guidelines printed out for you to pick up on Friday, with this semester’s theme.

“I suggest going through pictures of past galleries—Fall and Spring both—to get a good idea of the ways people played around with those themes. Unless you’re a third year or above, you are not required to participate, but I will offer to add extra credit to your lowest grade this semester should you choose to. Please think about it, but don’t take too long. If you have any questions, please see me during my office hours, but keep any questions for now, until after you receive the guidelines on Friday. Now, let’s get started.”

The model got up onto the stage as Marianne got down, and Alfred clipped a clean page to his easel.

The model wore a curtain draped over him like a drunk frat guy trying to make a toga—or, more accurately, an over-the-hill man trying to relive his glory days in vain. His wide, mulberry-colored mouth was made wider by the deep grooves on either side of it, and paired with the lines carved into his forehead made him look like he’d spent much of his life frowning. His eyes sparkled with grandfatherly mirth, however, and he still had most of his thick, long hair, which was the color of steel.

His pose was _The Thinker_ -like, Alfred getting the three-fourth shot of him, struggling with the outline of his nose, which looked to have been broken before and was never set quite right back into place.

“I wanted to ask Artemisia,” Eva whispered as she used light strokes to outline the model’s curls. “I don’t think she likes me, though.”

Usually, Alfred would say that she was taking things out of context, but she was probably right in this case. Artemisia didn’t like most people and saw herself as God’s gift to the artistic world. She was asocial and pompous; she was a pretty stereotypical fine arts student, always looking down on the design kids and calling them sell-outs or CalArts style impersonators, regardless of how they actually drew. She got on Alfred’s nerves, and he couldn’t understand Eva’s insistence on trying to impress her.

“Pretty sure she wouldn’t be interested.” Alfred sighed at the heartbroken look on Eva’s face. “I’ll have Kuro ask her. He’s in my American lit class.”

Eva frowned at the mention of Kuro but nodded. They remained quiet for the rest of class, and Marianne and one of the other students went to help the model to his feet when he asked.

“My old back’s not used to sitting that way for so long anymore,” he laughed, and Marianne said he should have asked for a break. “Oh, don’t you worry about me, sweetheart. Just go easy on grading these kids. It’s hard to make ugly look good.”

Some laughed while others assured he wasn’t ugly, and Marianne had everyone thank the model for his time.

The last to get his sketchbook back, Alfred stayed behind and asked, “Maman? Eva said a guy in her other class is looking for an artist to commission comic pages for his friend. Do you know anyone who’d be interested? Eva’s already suggested Margarethe.”

Marianne hummed and pulled her cellphone out of the deep pocket of her long, peasant-style skirt. “Margarethe has no slots open, last I heard.” She unlocked her phone and started scrolling through some notes. “I can ask Dr. Nkrumah, but she might be too busy with little Mira and Aaron depending on the length of the script and the time-frame this friend wants to set. In my experience, writers think we can whip out drawings fast as lightning.

“Hmm… Leon’s workload up in San Francisco makes him really busy these days, and Chun-Yan says he hasn’t picked up a pencil to do anything but jot down numbers since high school. Colette maybe. She hasn’t drawn comics since working for _Lavender Menace_ , but I’ll ask if she’s interested in getting back into it. I’ll ask a few others, too.”

Alfred’s smile wavered at the mention of Colette, but he reminded himself that it would be this writer that would be working with her, not him.

“Thanks, Maman.” Alfred hugged her, and she returned the embrace instantly, patting the back of his head. “I have the friend’s email address. I’ll copy it for you to send to your friends that are interested. I’m gonna ask Michelle, and I promised Eva I’d get Kuro to ask Artemisia.”

Marianne blew out a long breath and tucked some of her golden-brown hair behind one ear. Most of her hair was pulled back in a bun, but the hair framing her face was still growing out from her attempt at fringe bangs and weren’t long enough to be tied back.

“I try not to say anything negative about my students,” she said, adjusting her pink glasses, “but that girl….” She let out another long breath, looking tired. “She… is a piece of work.” Marianne smiled suddenly, blue eyes glittering. “You should think about taking the commission.”

“Maman—”

“Give yourself more credit. Self-deprecation has never been an attractive trend, especially amongst artists.”

Alfred looked away but nodded. “Yes, Maman. I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask. An open mind. Run off, now. Doing anything special?”

Alfred shrugged the strap of his backpack. “I’m gonna head back to the shop. Michelle and Sakura finally talked me into joining their roleplay group and want to help me create a character.”

“I think you’d like to play a fire genasi or a tiefling. But I know you’ll have fun, baby.”

“You too, Mom. G’bye!” Alfred waved and headed out, his mom’s words stirring through his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *adds DnD to the story*  
> Also me: *has never played DnD and only knows about it through art, tiktok, and memes*


	18. Ursula's Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artemisia = 2p!nyo!Italy  
> Marta/Dr. Rogue = 2p!nyo!Spain

_ “…What you're calling evil, is part of human nature.” ~ Nicholas Schreck _

“Stop being so nervous,” Linnea whispered as she lightly pushed Alfred into the classroom.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’ll make me stop being nervous,” Alfred whispered back.

People were already rearranging the desks for their groups, and towards the back by the windows, Kuro and Ursula had already gotten five desks pushed together. Ursula was wearing her dark blue beanie again, dark hair pulled back in her usual messy ponytail. The fact that they were both wearing bomber jackets with superhero T-shirts underneath—Jessica Jones for her and the Flash for him—irked Alfred.

“Please tell Miss Technophobia that we’re not doing our project on transcendentalism,” Kuro begged when he saw Alfred and Linnea walking towards them.

“Excuse—?!”

Linnea cut Ursula off. “Edgar Allen Poe’s an option and you want to write about _Walden_?”

“Thank you!” Kuro praised, pulling Linnea to sit next to him.

Before he forgot, Alfred asked Kuro if Artemisia would be willing to take on a comic commission.

“Are we talking about the same Artemisia?” Kuro deadpanned.

Alfred shrugged. “Eva wanted me to at least ask, so that’s my part done.”

Ursula, frowning at the mention of Eva, waited until Alfred sat in the desk across from Linnea before sitting down in the desk on Kuro’s other side. She didn’t want to sit next to Alfred any more than he wanted to be by her, but when Linnea waved towards the door, Alfred remembered who the last person in their group was.

 _Don’t turn around_ , Alfred told himself.

Glancing at him questionably, Kuro then glanced up to follow Linnea’s gaze. A devious smile cut across his face as Ursula rolled her eyes, and Alfred knew that this was going to be his least favorite class.

And that Kuro might end up six feet underground before May.

“Hey, handsome,” Kuro greeted with a wink as Ivan sat in the desk across from him. “You’re Hollywood, yeah?” He waited for Ivan to nod. “Interested in some movie magic making? Only if you’re into that, of course.” A corner of his mouth inched up more as Ivan flushed, expression showing he’d been caught off-guard and that he didn’t know how to respond.

“Stop now before I tell Artemisia you’re flirting,” said Linnea.

“Who’s flirting?” Kuro questioned with an exaggerated shrug, but he leaned back in his chair.

He wasn’t going to risk pissing off his girlfriend again. They’d been off-again-on-again for a year. It wasn’t a stable relationship, Artemisia constantly worried he was cheating, seeing as she had started out as the side chick while he was dating Aliki Callas. It wasn’t Alfred’s business, though, so he stayed out of it.

“Pig,” Ursula muttered and then dropped a textbook onto her desk to get their attention. “If we’re gonna go with a not-shitty idea, we’re gonna want to be fast. Jones just walked in, and two groups look ready to choose already.”

Turning, Alfred saw she was right. Two people were already heading up the podium as Dr. Jones put his bag onto the desk beside it.

“Edgar Allen Poe, then?” Linnea asked, and Kuro shot a hand up to say that it had his vote.

“What exactly about Poe, though?” Ursula questioned, looking fed up already. She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back in the desk. “The weird coincidences surrounding his book? His influence of modern horror? His influence on detective mysteries with that orangutan story?”

“Let’s go with the detective thing,” Alfred suggested, cutting off Kuro, who glared at him for suggesting they cover something other than horror. “I just heard Ingvar tell Jones they’re doing their project on Southern Gothic influence on modern horror, and he’s not gonna want two groups talking about the same genre.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Kuro relented, and Linnea said it was good with her.

Ursula thankfully agreed, and Ivan said it was a good topic.

“I’ll let Jones know, then,” Alfred said, getting up and trying not to look Ivan in the eyes.

Kuro noticed and raised the eyebrow not covered by his long bangs; Alfred resisted the urge to flip him off. He’d only known about Kuro from Linnea and hadn’t expected him to be worse than Roland.

“No, you can’t do your topic on _Marvel_ vs _DC_ ,” said Dr. Jones as Alfred approached, and someone nearby joked, “Dammit, we need a new idea then.”

“It counts as American literature,” Alfred rebutted.

“You’ll have to save it for Dr. Van Mander’s graphic novel class.”

“Dr. Femi-nazi,” someone coughed before someone in his group thumped him on the head in response.

“Fine, then I guess we’ll do our project on how Edgar Allen Poe influenced the detective mystery narrative,” Alfred sighed with a shrug.

“God-fucking-dammit, we were gonna do Poe,” said the guy getting up from his seat.

Alfred smiled and pointed at him with finger guns. “You snooze, you lose.”

Dr. Jones wrote down the topic and gave Alfred a thumbs-up. “Do me a favor. If y’all mention Sherlock Holmes in your project, use the RDJ or _Elementary_ screenshots and not the BBC version.”

“I’ll do ya one better and use _House_ screenshots.”

Dr. Jones laughed. “I think I smell an _A_ already. Now sit down and discuss things, and congratulations for emailing me your essay with one whole-ass minute to spare. Try not to do that with your group project. Your ass isn’t the only one on the line.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred said with a casual salute using his index and middle fingers as he headed back to the desks.

“One minute to spare?” Linnea’s tone was scolding, but she couldn’t help but smile. “ _Really_?”

“I had to check on Mattie’s and Gil’s kids last night and lost track of time when Janice and Yon Su got home.”

Linnea paused, confused, then sighed. “I keep forgetting you mean ‘baby goats’ when you say their kids.”

“Please tell me one of the goat’s name is Death,” Kuro said, leaning forward in interest.

“Death the Kid, yep,” Alfred laughed, seeing Ivan smile out of the corner of his eye. It made his heart flip up to his throat, cheeks reddening as he kept smiling.

“We should get started,” Ursula butt in, and Alfred’s smile faltered. “Like Jones said, it’s not just one of our asses on the line if any of us choose to wait till the last second.”

“Killjoy,” Kuro huffed. “But a correct killjoy. So what’s our plan of action? I live on campus but don’t have a car, so as long as a campus bus goes there or I can bum a ride, I can meet anywhere. This is my only class with an attendance policy.”

“Same here, but I do have a car and don’t mind strapping Kuro to the hood if I have to,” Linnea replied. “Library?”

“Best place,” replied Ursula with a shrug, and Ivan agreed.

“I commute, but I don’t live far from campus,” said Ivan, and Alfred started wondering where in Hetaville he lived.

 _Stop it_ , he told himself. “Same. I work, though, and I just applied for a second job. It’ll be on campus, though, so it wouldn’t take me long to get to the library after.”

“Where’d you apply?” Kuro asked.

“Computer labs in Rodinia,” Alfred replied. “I might not get it, and the job I have isn’t far from here anyway.”

“It’s right by Feliciano’s,” said Linnea, “so we can always meet there some days, if we decide to meet before or after your shift.” She looked at Ursula but out of the corner of her eye. “You live in Gulfport, right? How’s your schedule for meeting?”

“I work in the campus bookstore,” Ursula replied, ignoring the cold shoulder. “I’m here pretty much all day on weekdays. I don’t mind driving up here on weekends if I have to, but I do secretary work at a church back home, mostly just Saturdays. The schedule’s pretty unpredictable there right now, so weekdays are best.”

Linnea nodded and got out a piece of paper. “Everyone put your classes on here, and we’ll trade numbers, too for a group chat. Kuro and I both mooch off our parents’ savings instead of working, so whatever y’all’s schedules are we can probably work around.”

“And like I said,” Kuro said, “none of my other classes have an attendance policy, so I can always skip if I have to. Any reason to escape Dr. Rogue.”

“Give her a break,” Linnea sighed. “Her brother died in the Pangea fire.”

While the arsonist had never been caught, word from the rumor mill was that Marta Edelstein (maiden name Vilar), who’d been a criminal profiler at an FBI office in Florida at the time of the fire, used her knowledge to track down the arsonist off the books. One rumor said she’d moved back here to watch him and gather more evidence and see him arrested. The other, most-often repeated, rumor was that she’d killed the arsonist and kept his body buried under her rose garden.

“That was twenty fucking years ago, but y’know? Whatever, fine,” Kuro relented. “I still don’t have to like her.”

Alfred wrote down his class schedule plus his schedule at the shop before passing the paper to Ivan, suddenly self-conscious of his near-illegible handwriting. Ivan didn’t seem to notice, though. He didn’t seem to notice anything Alfred had written, focusing only on putting down his own schedule.

“Should we just do a Prezi?” asked Linnea. “It’d be easiest, and I can always put everything together.”

“We should have more than just that,” said Ursula as she wrote her class and work schedules. “Everyone’s gonna be doing PowerPoints or Prezis.”

Before Alfred or Linnea could snap back at her, Ivan said, “We can come up with the finer details later. What about the research?”

The five spent the rest of the class time splitting up work, and it was decided that Linnea would handle scheduling. Ivan volunteered to put everything together for the Prezi, then, so Linnea wouldn’t be overloaded, since she was taking seven classes this semester.

“You’re fucking insane,” Kuro and Ursula muttered in near-unison when Linnea said that.

“One of them is just a lab that only meets Thursday,” Linnea said with a shrug. “And the death and dying class only meets once a week, too.”

“Insane,” Kuro repeated, and it was time to go.

Like Tuesday, Ivan quickly gathered his things, explaining he only had ten minutes to get to Dr. Adnan’s class.

Linnea looked at Alfred in triumph, and, thankfully, Ivan didn’t see as he rushed out of the classroom. She had Death and Dying in fifteen minutes, so Linnea told Alfred she’d meet him tonight or tomorrow and rushed out. Kuro followed, asking if she did the reading for their deviancy class, leaving Alfred alone with Ursula to put the desks back in order.

“I know you don’t give a flying fuck about what I think,” Ursula said as she zipped up her bag, “but I suggest finding a different guy to ogle.”

Grabbing his backpack, Alfred asked her why she cared.

“His church ain’t like the one I work at,” said Ursula cryptically, looking up with guarded eyes as she pulled her bag’s strap onto her shoulder. “He’s Viktor Arlovsky’s kid—or step-kid, I heard. Ask Tadas if you don’t believe me. I’d watch myself around him if I were you. Your brother might have trouble affording more new windows.”


	19. Critique

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ableism and biphobia brought up after Dr. Adnan has the class take a break.
> 
> Simón = Ecuador

_ “It’s stranger than every strangeness / And the dreams of all the poets / And the thoughts of all the philosophers, / That things are really what they seem to be / And there’s nothing to understand.” ~ Alberto Caeiro _

Groups were written on the board when Ivan entered Dr. Adnan’s class, and the desks had already been rearranged. Hedvika and Julchen were already at the group of desks near the back, Julchen’s cane leaning against her desk and cheeks flushed. She was tying her long, pale hair into a braid, and Hedvika was chatting with Miguel and Mei, who were sitting in the group of desks closest to theirs.

Hedvika had her feet in the chair of the desk opposite of hers, so Ivan sat in the desk next to it, by Julchen. Her cell phone buzzed on the desk, and she tied off her braid and grabbed it as she nodded a greeting to Ivan.

Since Dr. Adnan told them all they’d be writing prompted flash fiction today, Ivan went ahead and got out his Composition notebook and pen. He’d gotten a new notebook just for class, not wanting anyone in his critique group to see his other stuff. He’d hidden the files of his writing on his laptop, too, having had to Google how to do it.

He’d have to use the TOR browser for his blog in Bible lit, but Eduard had suggested keeping false files on his laptop with Chick Tract-approved Bible commentary to throw Viktor off the scent.

“If he sees nothing, he’ll get suspicious,” Eduard had said, and Ivan agreed. Eduard had more experience sneaking around his parents than Ivan did; he was thankful to have his help.

A hand caught the door as Dr. Adnan started to close it, Antonio entering with a sheepish, apologetic smile on his face.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Ad—”

“Save the excuses,” Dr. Adnan interrupted, letting the brunette inside. “Just try not to let this become a habit. Find your group, now. Names are on the board.”

Antonio looked at the board and walked further into the class to get a better look as Dr. Adnan closed and locked the door. From the angle, Ivan could see Antonio’s smile falter, but when he turned and saw him, the smile switched to full-wattage, like back when he’d helped Ivan find Rodinia Hall.

“Nice seeing you again!” Antonio greeted as he waited for Hedvika to grudgingly move her feet off his seat. “Finding everywhere okay?”

“I am, thanks,” Ivan replied, smiling. “How are you doing?”

“Good, but ask me again in a week,” Antonio laughed. He then turned to Maria, his smile faltering again. “Hey, Julchen—”

“Maria,” she icily corrected, pale eyes flat behind her glasses. One of her eyes looked red from the way the sunlight hit them through the window beside her, making her look creepy.

“Maria.” Antonio’s smile faltered again, and Hedvika, Mei, and Miguel suddenly quieted to not-so-subtlety listen. “How are Imre and Lise? Lise got to play with an orchestra in Savannah over Christmas break, right? I hope it went well. She’s really talented.”

“Fine. Yep. It did. She is.”

If looks could kill, Antonio would be dead. Ivan could practically feel frigid air emanating from Julchen’s skin.

“Okay, everyone!” Dr. Adnan called from the front, her voice a gust of wind to break through the stagnating air. “On the desk, I have five groups of four prompt dice. On each side of the dice is a word—two nouns, a verb, and an adjective. For your assignment today, you will have an hour to write a one- to two-page story using the words on the dice. Don’t think; just write. Once the hour is up, use the rest of class time to critique. Bring in the revised version on Tuesday along with your story for the prompt on Blackboard.”

Her expression flattened at the whispered curses.

“Don’t bother asking for an extension if your only excuse is not checking to see if you have assignments,” she sighed. “If it’s bad from rushing, then that just gives your group more to critique. I want the revised versions of those stories turned in next Thursday, before we do this exercise again and every Thursday. The hardest part of writing is finishing. I don’t want y’all to be those writers with notebooks filled with WIPs and ideas that end up going nowhere. Everyone has a book inside them, but without discipline, it’ll never get written. Now get your dice. Just send one person per group and start writing. Try not to throw the dice across the room when rolling them.”

Hedvika was already getting up. “I’ll get them. Sit here and don’t strangle each other. Or do, but wait ‘till I get back, so I can watch.”

Julchen rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat. Whatever tension had been between her and Antonio, she was letting it go for now, but judging by the way she pointedly avoided eye-contact with him, none of that anger had evaporated.

Were they exes?

Whatever it was, Ivan already knew that critique was going to be hell, and by the way both Julchen and Antonio glanced at him, he could tell he was caught in the middle.

Great.

Hedvika rolled the dice on the desks when she returned, and she, Antonio, and Julchen got out their notebooks. Antonio’s and Hedvika’s were spiral-bound. Hedvika’s cover showed a K-pop group Ivan vaguely recognized, and Antonio’s cover was the House Tyrell seal. Julchen had a composition notebook like Ivan, but hers was covered in stickers. He recognized some as Pokémon, and the Armed Bambi sticker from Manon’s merch store made him smile.

“Night, cat, glide, bright,” Hedvika read. “Brilliant.” She looked at Julchen, who had already started writing, and smiled smugly. “I can figure out what you’re already thinking of.”

Using her elbow to hold down the notebook’s cover, Julchen flipped Hedvika off. She lowered her hand when Dr. Adnan told her to use her words and to be civil.

 _Brilliant start to the semester_ , thought Ivan.

Maybe there was a God and he was being punished.

 _“Thinking God is punishing them for some transgression is nothing more than an excuse to keep from working to make things better,”_ Nicholas had said once after a rather loud altercation with a street corner preacher down the block from the apartment they lived in until Ivan was eight. _“If you have the energy to wallow in guilt, you have the energy to make a plan and see it through.”_

On the few fan pages Nicholas Braginsky had, his most-quoted line from an interview was “If destiny is something set in stone, then it’s my plan to chip at it away until my destiny is the shape I want, the one I’ve created. Even if I don’t get to finish, it’s still much more than what it’d be had I left it alone.”

Nicholas would hate seeing his son in the house he lived in now, always looking over his shoulder, constantly guessing who could be trusted and who would run to Viktor.

All Ivan could do, though, was focus on what was in front of him, if he wanted to keep moving forward, and right now, what was right in front of him were four words he wasn’t sure how to put together.

He’d done flash fiction before, but he was a plotter, not a pantser. Freewriting stumped him.

Hedvika looked as flustered as he felt, though, which he felt guilty for finding solace in.

Antonio and Julchen were already writing, Antonio in pencil, occasionally reaching for the eraser on his desk, and Maria in purple pen with words and sentences crossed out with spirals.

In the freewriting exercises they’d done at Ivan’s old school, they weren’t allowed to erase or cross anything out so as to add to the challenge of working on the fly, but Dr. Adnan hadn’t said anything about that, though. That was one less worry, at least.

Finally, Ivan just started writing, starting with a cat at night, the moon full and bright. He used the word glide to describe the cat’s movements across the forest floor as it led the protagonist deeper and deeper. He had no clue where this was going, but once he had a direction in mind, the hour was up.

“Dammit,” Hedvika whispered as she set her green pen aside.

Ivan did the same, chuckling when Antonio said his story had more erase marks than words.

Dr. Adnan told everyone to hand their stories to the group member on their left and to keep going until everyone had read each person’s story. There would be a ten-minute break after an hour, and they should all be done reading by then and should use the last half-hour of class to read over everyone’s comments and discuss the critique.

“Remember,” she said, “critique isn’t just taking all of everyone’s comments and suggestions at face value. You’re the writer, so you have final say. Keep everyone’s words in mind, but defend your work as well. And make sure to keep the discussions civil. Don’t make your comments personal, and don’t take anyone’s comments personally. You’re judging the writing; I don’t give a damn how y’all feel about each other. Just keep it out of the classroom. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the class chorused, and everyone started trading stories.

Julchen’s handwriting was slanted to the right but was mostly legible; the fact that she wrote big and skipped every other line helped. She kept switching between cursive and print, and during the second readthrough, Ivan realized it was because the cursive was the main character’s narration when he was human. The print was when the wendigo possessing him started to take over his brain, and the final two paragraphs were in print, showing that the wendigo had taken over. The final sentence stopped in the middle, but with the way it was written, Ivan could believe it had been done on purpose and not because of time restraints.

The story was creepy, but Ivan found the gory detail of the cat being dismembered in the narrator’s flashback to his childhood too much. It didn’t fit in much with the rest of the story, like she’d just put it in there for shock factor and to wedge in the cat somehow.

The rest of the story was really good, though. Julchen handled setting well; the woods were almost like a whole separate character rather than a place the narrator happened to be shoved into. He made sure to write that on the next clean page. What had been handled well was something most of his critique group at his last school had always forgotten to include.

Next was Hedvika’s story, her careful, loopy cursive hard to read at first, but halfway through, he was able to read it fine. Her story was more realistic than his or Julchen’s, taking place in a hospice, an empty food bowl kept by the bed. The story was heartbreaking, the woman dying alone but for a nurse’s half-hearted care. The dead cat was obviously a metaphor, which seemed to be beat over the head in the narration—it reminded Ivan of movies and video games that talked about the Butterfly Effect shoving butterfly imagery at the viewer every ten seconds.

It felt condescending, almost, like Hedvika didn’t trust the audience to get the meaning of her story and kept spelling it out for them. Based on the notes in purple ink on the page at the end of the story, Julchen thought the same thing, so Ivan kept his comments on that brief. He also added that he liked how Hedvika used sentence fragments to show the main character’s lucidity slipping away.

Antonio’s story was realistic fiction as well. The male narrator started out seated at a bar with bright, neon tubes shaped like a cat with an arched back posted on the back wall. A waitress gliding from table to table was described heavily (Eduward would have said it read like Antoinio was writing with one hand under the desk), to where Ivan found himself skimming over the text.

He flipped to the next clean page and found that Hedvika and Julchen had given the same criticism. Julchen seemed to be taking Dr. Adnan’s order seriously, her comments concentrating on the work; she even complimented the story’s imagery, bringing in all the senses instead of only sight. It was actually Hedvika who was harshest in her critique, not even offering anything she thought had been done well.

Ivan went over the rest of the story, commenting that the abrupt change of pace in the last three paragraphs made it feel like there was too much going on at the same time. He said he liked the mood, though. The comparison of the narrator’s killings to artwork reminded him of Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover.” It also reminded him of the show _Hannibal_ , but he decided to only mention the poem.

He’d always gotten mixed reactions when he used pop culture as comparisons to people’s work in critique groups (outside fanfiction forums); he didn’t know where Antonio stood in that regard and didn’t want to accidentally insult him. He’d been really nice, and Ivan needed allies here. Eduard lived thousands of miles away in California, and the loss of his other friends left him feeling broken. He wished he’d interacted with his readers and other fanfiction writers more. Maybe then he’d have some friends.

“Time,” Dr. Adnan called as Ivan finished writing his comments in Antonio’s notebook. “Bathrooms are down the hall and around the corner. Vending machines are past the restrooms, in an alcove across from room two-forty-seven.”

Ivan handed Antonio his notebook and took his from Julchen before getting up. She’d been holding everyone’s notebooks right up to her face, and Ivan wondered if she needed stronger glasses. Hedvika was already heading out the door with her friends, and Julchen grunted as she got up, leaning on her cane for purchase.

“Did you bring your salt?” a guy with wavy, chestnut brown hair and dark brown eyes asked Maria. He reached forward to help but retracted his hand when she frowned.

Ivan recognized him as the guy that admonished Hedvika for saying Maria used the cane just to get attention. He didn’t remember his name, though; he didn’t pay attention during the roll call.

“Yeah,” she told the guy. “Thanks, Simón.”

“I’m going to get a drink,” Antonio said, stretching his arms above his head.

“I’ll meet you there,” Ivan replied, ignoring Julchen’s sharp look—followed by a look of embarrassment—as she headed towards the door.

A guy slapped him on the shoulder, saying he had no chance with “that abino,” and that he was too good for “a crippled slut” anyway.

“She doesn’t even know what team she plays for,” the friend laughed, and Simón shrugged his hand off his shoulder, frowning.

Ivan’s hand clenched, then unclenched, crescent marks left in his palm. He didn’t say anything, though, feeling Manon’s disappointed look aimed his way as he followed Antonio out of the room.

He didn’t know Julchen, he told himself. He should stay in his own lane. If he’d spoken up, it could have gotten heated fast. This school had a strict non-violence policy, and the big guy was usually pinned immediately as the aggressor. He couldn’t afford to lose his scholarship. He also couldn’t afford it if a witness told Viktor.

Right, he couldn’t afford to get involved.

“Your story was really interesting,” Antonio said to Ivan when he reached the vending machines. There was a small space set into the wall, holding three vending machines—one for food, one for cold drinks, and one for hot drinks.

“Thanks.” Ivan smiled and took a couple of dollar bills out of his pocket. He took a paper cup from the holder attached to the hot drink machine and stuck it beneath the spout for tea and cider. “I liked yours. Do you write crime fiction a lot?”

Hedvika snapped her fingers, making Ivan and Antonio look her way. “That’s where I remember reading that! You wrote something like it for the Halloween story contest. I _thought_ it was different from your other ones.”

“I wish you’d write like that more often,” said Miguel with a nod. “No offence, but your other stuff is really ‘Guy from your MFA.’”

Mei laughed. “God, I love that Twitter so much.”

Antonio chuckled nervously. “Writing that was a lot of fun, so I’m trying to branch out more.”

“It worked really well,” Ivan said, putting his money into the machine and choosing black tea. “What was your Halloween one about?”

“Serial killer like that one,” Antonio replied after a sip of his Dr. Pepper. “At first, I wanted to base it off of the Pangea Hall fire, but even though it happened like twenty years ago—”

“You woulda gotten hell for it,” said someone as he got some chips from the vending machine.

“Oh yeah,” said Miguel, eyebrows rising. His brown eyes shone. “Especially if Dr. Vargas or Dr. Rogue got wind of it.”

Ivan remembered Kuro mentioning Dr. Rogue and Linnea saying the professor had lost her brother in that fire Antonio mentioned to him on the first day. It happened twenty years ago, and the school still hadn't taken it down?

The bougies were probably still debating about whether to rebuild the dorm or make it into a memorial.

“Right.” Antonio nodded and chuckled awkwardly. “So I based the killer more off of H. H. Holmes, a serial killer from Chicago. What I read about him sounded too weird to be true, so I figured it made a great story.”

“I still refuse to believe it was real,” muttered Mei. “That guy just sounds way too fucked up to have existed.”

“Boo!” Miguel shouted suddenly by Mei’s ear, making her jump and everyone else laugh. Mei punched him playfully in the arm, making Miguel laugh harder.

“Alright,” said Hedvika, finishing her drink. “We better get back and finish ripping each other’s stories to shreds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that don't know:  
> Plotter: Writers that plan their stories, sometimes as detailed as having an outline laying out plot points and character entrances, etc.  
> Pantser: Writers that write by "the seam of their pants." Often start with a "zero draft," to throw down all their ideas and explore the world at the same time as the protag does.


	20. Wasted Potential

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vera = 2p!Czech Republic

_ “When we let go of believing we are superior, we open ourselves to the experience of living in the community of Nature.” ~ Philip and Stephanie Carr-Gomm _

Grace had saved Alfred’s seat again, waving for his attention soon as he walked through the door. She wore a wine-colored blazer and high-waisted pencil skirt today, and Emil had curled his silvery-blond hair and had it parted at the side. He’d kept more to neutral colors today, but for the blue and gold in his scarf.

“Save me,” Emil begged, elbows on his desk and hands clasped in front of his chin. “Please.”

“She roping you into her gambling ring?” Alfred joked as he sat down, pulling up his desk over his lap.

“Har. Har,” Grace deadpanned with a sharp side-eye. Her glasses slipped down the ski-slope bridge of her nose slightly.

Grace’s dad and step-mom worked at casinos in Biloxi, and she’d been a card shark since birth. Her wardrobe and textbooks had been paid for by leading unsuspecting people into games; Gilbert liked to joke that Grace must be a favorite of Fortuna to be so prosperous in her “parties”—as Grace preferred calling them. She wasn’t the fan of the jokes equating her to a crime boss, but she knew Alfred didn’t mean anything by them.

“No,” said Emil. “She’s trying to get me to spy on Theo for her.”

“I’m not asking you to spy on him!” Grace exclaimed, and Alfred chuckled.

“Vasil and Theo still trying to invite people to those poetry readings at the pizza place?”

“That place smells like greasy socks,” Emil said and made a gagging sound, “and the _caf_ pizza tastes better. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Elfie uses cardboard to save money on flour.”

While exaggerating (Alfred liked the cafeteria’s pizza), Emil had a point. People didn’t go to the pizzeria for its pizza; they went for the cheap hang-out space and the Goddess-blessed milkshakes. Emil was lactose-intolerant, though, and while he used to put up with the stomach pain in order to get his ice cream or cheese fix, the stomach pain had gotten too much for him to handle in recent years. He also didn’t care for poetry, saying poems were all pretentious run-on sentences with awkward pauses.

“Mathias is probably happy to join them again,” Alfred joked, laughing at Grace’s defeated expression and Emil’s snort.

Mathias liked making a spectacle of himself, forever the class clown. When Theo was asking for more poets back in October, Mathias jumped at the chance and had Jens, his friend since pre-k, help him write an epic poem that had a human soldier fighting bravely in the Skeleton War, the rhyme scheme made to sound like it came from a Dr. Seuss book.

The fact that it had won him a trophy Mrs. Elfie, the pizzeria’s owner, had made for him on the spot had annoyed Theo more than the actual poem.

The lights dimmed, and the door slammed shut, putting an end to their conversation. Before the projector finished powering on, Dr. Vargas dove into today’s lecture, models of abnormality and procedures concerning diagnosis and treatment. The class scrambled for papers and pens, Dr. Vargas requiring a list of ten things covered in the lecture at the end of class. He counted this towards participation grades rather than requiring people to talk, since there were so many people in the class.

Alfred occasionally switched to a sheet of paper later in his notebook to jot down things for what he’d turn in later. It slowed down his note-taking, and he suddenly wished he’d done the reading. It was only day two, and Dr. Vargas was already keeping his promise that Alfred would be unable to slack off and still manage to pull an _A_ out of his ass at the end of the semester.

“Yes!” Dr. Vargas pointed at a girl in the back as the first slide of diagnosis appeared.

“With h-how hard it can be for people to receive a professional diagnosis—” the girl started, and someone in another row groaned.

“Let her finish,” Dr. Vargas warned, hazel-green eyes narrowing at the guy who’d groaned. He nodded to the girl. “Go ahead.”

After clearing her throat, the girl continued. “Well, like—”

“‘Well, like,’” the same guy mimicked in a falsetto.

“Hey!” Dr. Vargas called out, and the guy’s eyes widened. “Don’t think I won’t kick you out of my classroom and count it as an unexcused absence!” His eyes scanned the room. “In here, you will respect your classmates, you will respect me, and you will respect the subject matter. If you can’t do that, transfer or fail. I’m not the one paying your tuition, so I frankly don’t give a damn either way. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the class chorused with mixed levels of seriousness.

After a nod and rough exhale, Dr. Vargas motioned back to the girl. “Carry on.”

More sheepish than before and eyes on her lap, the girl—Alfred vaguely recognized her cherry-red hair and bangs so long that they covered her eyes—took a deep breath before moving on. “A-as I was saying, I… I was able to see a psychologist.”

She paused and swallowed audibly, but she kept going when Dr. Vargas motioned for her to continue.

“A-and…” She took another deep breath. “When… when the psychologist kept—Um, when h-he didn’t help, my-my mom stepped in and f-found me a new one.” She took another breath and brushed her long fringe bangs away from her eyes. “But my friend… s-they can’t—couldn’t do… They didn’t have those re-resour-resources. Their family doesn’t have insurance, and s-they doesn’t qualify for Medicare or-or anything l-like that, and ev… even if they did, their parents don’t believe—They don’t trust psychologists.”

Dr. Vargas nodded knowingly, eyes softening. Alfred’s mouth was a straight line. This sounded similar to Eva’s situation, except she did have Medicare. However, her mom didn’t trust psychologists, calling them “Satanists with degrees” and had refused to pay the deductible whenever the school counsellor tried suggesting Eva see someone. When Eva was hospitalized after accidentally cutting herself too deeply, the doctor had needed to threaten to call CPS before Mrs. Szenes finally relented and let Eva stay in the psych ward.

It was by some miracle she hadn’t put a stop to the outpatient care.

Alfred blinked hard and realized he’d missed some of what the girl had said.

“… What harm is there in someone like them finding help from s-sources for people with-with dep-depression and anxiety, even though they haven’t been pro-professionally diagnosed? A-and why-why can’t they can’t find re-relief in find… finding a possible label for h-their-their group of symptoms? Sure, it-it can change when they c-can go to a doctor, but…”

She trailed off, losing her train of thought, and while her cheeks were flushed (though she was wearing a good deal of blush), the rest of her round face was pale. Her shoulders shook, and Alfred suddenly felt bad for her while also being proud. Saying all that aloud in a large group must have been tough for her and seemed to have taken a lot of energy.

Nodding, Dr. Vargas took over, seeing that she was having trouble wrapping up. “I’ll start off saying that there absolutely isn’t a problem with them finding resources for those dealing with depression and anxiety. There’s always going to be problems with identifying with a mental illness, whether the diagnosis was professional or not. Using the label of depression or anxiety as a crutch and doing nothing to take steps towards recovery helps no one, but it sounds like your friend is taking the steps to heal, even if it must be without a professional to help, which I do pray changes for them soon, and I’ll put up resources on Blackboard for anyone who is in a similar position. Anyway, I commend them on that and would urge anyone to take those steps whether or not they’d been diagnosed.”

The girl smiled, but it fell at Dr. Vargas’s next word.

“However.” He tapped the mouse pad of his laptop when the projection screen went dark. “You aren’t saying what this identity is that they’ve taken on that offers relief, and I won’t press the issue. I understand if you don’t feel comfortable sharing without this friend’s consent. That being said, say they’ve taken on the ‘identity’ of bipolar disorder. It’s possible they might find some initial relief, thinking, ‘Yes, finally, a name that explains everything!’ Except. Does it?”

Dr. Vargas skipped two slides to one showing a bullet-point list of dangers pertaining to self-diagnosis.

“I get it,” he said. “No one can be one-hundred-percent objective, even people with fancy, framed degrees.” He smirked at the laughter when he switched to a picture of his degrees before returning to the bullet points. “Still, it is much harder to be objective with _yourself_. We’re natural pattern-seekers, and when we find a solution before fully assessing the problem, we see pieces that just aren’t there.”

“Why can’t someone objectively go through tests and reach a diagnosis themselves?” someone asked. “It’s not like they’re all edgy kids that find a mental illness they think sounds cool and point at some of their quirks as symptoms. Lots of them are like Vera’s friend.”

Alfred didn’t recognize the name, but he’d probably seen her in class on Tuesday and around campus. Her red hair was hard to miss, especially seeing as it was done in corset braids on either side of her head, the ribbons neon green.

Romano nodded again and responded, “I’m not questioning their motives, but as I mentioned, it’s impossible for us to be objective, least of all with ourselves. Symptoms can overlap or mimic symptoms of other illnesses. Going back to bipolar disorder, it’s common for type one to be misdiagnosed as schizophrenia, and vice versa. There’s also comorbidity to think about. Comorbid means having two or more illnesses at once, like having both depression and anxiety. There’s also physical illnesses to consider, as they can cause symptoms that look like mental illnesses. Brain tumors causing hallucinations or mood swings, for instance, or Lupus causing episodes of depression and anxiety, which are often resistant to typical depression and anxiety treatments.”

He paused, and when no one raised their hand, he continued.

“And I have an issue with the term ‘identity’ used in this instance,” he said, moving to the slide before the bullet-point list. “While receiving a diagnosis can and does provide a community—part of why group therapy can be very helpful and is encouraged, depending on the illness—we as therapists will keep an ear out for person versus identity language when the patients speak about themselves in relation to their diagnosis…”

The rest of the lecture consisted of three people contributing by stating what mental illness they had—major depressive disorder, dysthymia, and ADHD—and how separate they kept their symptoms from their personality traits, which turned out to be at varying degrees. The guy with ADHD didn’t place as much distance between his symptoms and personality as the two with depression, and he explained why eloquently, like he’d been expecting this topic and had prepared a script for himself. The girl with dysthymia was less eloquent and still got her point across, and Romano had to get everyone back on track when she started answering questions about how her illness differed from that of the guy with major depressive disorder.

There were some comments, but after what Romano said to the guy that had interrupted Vera, no one was rude. Some questions were directed to the students speaking out about their symptoms than to Romano, and he allowed them to speak and discuss, stepping back into more of a moderator role until the last twenty minutes of class.

“Alright.” He clapped, getting everyone’s attention. “We won’t get much time to cover all the treatments I’m going to mention here in the depth I would like, but there is a lot of ground to cover, so I hope y’all are good at taking notes.”

_CBT. DBT. Psychoanalysis and talk therapy. Humanistic therapy._

Alfred knew the CliffsNotes versions already but jotted down some points to fill up the rest of what he needed to turn in. He grimaced when the overhead lights came on, and Grace raised her eyebrows in a judgmental look as Alfred twisted to crack his back. She was just as bad as his moms when it came to lecturing him about his posture, and people cracking their knuckles/necks/back was a pet peeve of hers to boot.

“… quiz next week!” Romano was saying as everyone started to leave.

Emil was already on his feet, stretching his arms up over his head. “Guess I gotta head to statistics. Al, can you tell Dr. Honda to chill?”

Snorting, Alfred closed his notebook and stretched his legs out before suddenly bringing them in as people tried to get past. “What makes you think he’d listen to me?”

“Because you have Thanksgiving with him every year. You’re my inside man.”

“Wouldn’t matter if I was his god. He ain’t bending his tardy policy for anyone, so you’re better off just running. His room’s only just upstairs, anyway.”

Emil groaned and grabbed his stuff. He waved at Alfred and Grace as he left, no bag to grab. Despite being a year younger than Alfred, Emil had the preparation of a senior, known to bring little more than a pen or pencil to his classes—if that.

“Can I catch a ride with you to Patchwork?” Alfred asked Grace as he stood up, nearly knocked back into the seat by someone running past. “Excuse you!”

“Kiss my ass!” the person called as they left, and Romano, who was collecting notes at the desk, pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t say anything, though; the person was already gone.

Alfred huffed and picked up his notebook, Grace and a third person helping.

“Sorry about Juraj,” said Vera, her voice small and bangs so long, it was any wonder she could see. She handed over Alfred’s page of notes, other arm hugging her binder close to her chest. “He’s nice when he knows you better.”

Giving Alfred back his pen, Grace murmured, “Hard for that to happen if you knock out opportunities to get to know anyone.”

Vera went quiet before apologizing again and scuttling out of the room, arm coming up like she was wiping her eyes. She nearly forgot to turn in her notes, bumping into people when she turned back to do so.

Looking like she’d just been slapped, Grace stared after her, expression melting to one of regret. While usually cool and collected, the thing that most easily broke through Grace’s exterior was hurting someone else’s feelings. She could be sassy and sarcastic when pushed, but she always felt immediate regret, unless she knew for sure her words weren’t taken to heart.

“You can apologize to her later,” Alfred assured as he helped her up. “She’s probably sensitive, and that guy razzing her earlier didn’t help a lick.”

“Yeah,” Grace sighed. She drew in a breath and brought back her air of calm sweetness. “Anyway, I’m meeting Theo and Brendan in a bit for a late lunch. Andras is taking over my reading duties for now. Blanche, if they prefer a girl reading for them. Work cuts into my study time, and I’ll need to get my readings done tonight if I want to keep my schedule mostly-clear for the Esbat at the end of the month.”

There was going to be a Blue Moon on the thirty-first, and those Esbats were more involved spellcasting-wise from what Alfred knew—while Patchwork wasn’t as secretive as more traditional covens, they still kept a good deal of their rituals and practices under wraps, even from friends and family members.

Alfred had some plans of his own for the Blue Moon; it was a great time for money spells and any magic that worked towards long-term results.

“That’s fair.” He waited for Grace to put her notes on Romano’s pile before adding his. “See ya, Dr. Vargas.”

“Have a good day, Alfred. Please study for my class this time around.”

Some of the other stragglers snorted or sniggered, and Alfred muttered, “Yessir,” as he retrieved his bag and followed Grace into the hallway. “Are they all conspiring to embarrass me into transferring to somewhere where no one knows my name?”

“If that’s the case, you already know who the head of the snake is,” Grace chuckled.

Gilbert. Romano wouldn’t listen to him about anything, though; he simply, like everyone else in Alfred’s life, felt the need to constantly lecture him about his “dormant potential.”

He’d probably brought it upon himself when he purposely got lower scores than three people in his senior class back in high school, just to make sure he wouldn’t have to give a speech at graduation. It hadn’t taken long for Carlos, who’d been his AP Calculus teacher, to catch on and tell Matthew, who then told Marianne and Alice. He’d further brought it on himself when he applied to HU and HU only, knowing he’d get accepted with a scholarship.

“You could have gotten into NYU like Lud!” Gilbert had said, sounding exasperated.

“If you’d wanted, you could go to Yale or Stanford,” Marianne had huffed.

None of them honestly had Alfred’s potential in mind; they couldn’t see past their own desires, what opportunities they would have grabbed had they presented themselves.

The fact was Alfred didn’t know if he would have gotten accepted into NYU or Yale or Stanford or Duke or anywhere else. What he _did_ know was that he wouldn’t have been able to afford any of those places, and there was no way he would have been able to focus on studying while knowing he’d be in debt until the Lord and Lady walked him into Summerland.

“That’s true,” Alfred chuckled, keeping the sudden storm in his mind concealed. “Anyway, hope you have a good late lunch!”

“Good walking to Patchwork? Or will Mathias be able to drive you?”

“Has to talk to his advisor and bio professor about the TA role he’s hoping to get next sem, but it’s not as cold today, so I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? Vasil—” Her cellphone was already out as they headed up the stairs.

“Honestly, I’m good.” Alfred chuckled again. “Thanks, though. Really. Matthew wants to give me some practice runs, so I can do more readings for customers.”

“Just don’t start any fires, and you’ll be fine.”

“Will y’all let that go?!”

Grace smirked. “Stop lighting fires, and we’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that don't know:  
> Esbats are regular coven meetings, traditionally on full moons, but this can be changed depending on the tradition or coven (which might not follow an established tradition). There may be extra Esbats for special occasions, such as blue moons, super moons, eclipses, etc.  
> Summerland is the afterlife in Wiccan belief (though some other pagans may adopt the belief or terminology as well). It's essentially a place where your soul goes temporarily to prepare for its next life. A common belief I've heard was that the better of a person you were, the longer you get to chill out in Summerland (which is basically supposed to be a paradise) before your next life.


	21. Not Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk about self harm scars in the beginning of the chapter when Ivan sees Eva again.

_ “There is a life behind the personality that uses personalities as masks. There are times when life puts off the mask and deep answers unto deep.” ~ Dion Fortune _

That girl from statistics—Olha, Ivan remembered—was in Grazing Gazelle when he got there. She was chatting with Eva, who wasn’t wearing her bracelets and bands today. She kept shifting her hands awkwardly, and Ivan did a double-take as he walked to get behind Olha.

There were scars spider-webbing along Eva’s forearms; there were so many that Ivan couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed them even when she was wearing those bracelets. He’d been too distracted by the colors and fandoms he recognized, which he figured must have been Eva’s intention. He tried to raise his eyes up at the menu above the register, but he saw the way Eva’s teal eyes glanced his way as her smile faltered. She knew he’d seen, and she thought he was judging her.

He was, but he was trying not to.

He’d known people who’d self-harmed, but he’d never wrapped his head around it, much as he’d tried. It was just something so far out of his realm of understanding that he didn’t know how to acknowledge it other than the awkward question of “Are you okay?”

“… damn pigeon just about bit a chunk outta me,” Olha was saying as she lifted a hand, showing a bandage taped to the meat of her hand. “Thing’s smart, too. Knew to turn its head real fast so it’d do the most damage. I still didn’t let go, though. No way I’m letting a bird get the best of me.”

Eva laughed, and Ivan smiled. She must be taking behaviorism this semester. The lab used pigeons for training, he’d heard, and he was sure Skinner boxes were involved.

“Anyway,” Olha sighed. “I should probably order, huh? I’ll have fried pickles and a southwest wrap. Not the meal, please. I already just bought this skirt.” She motioned around to her muffin top, Eva assuring her that she looked great. “Damn right I do.”

“It’ll be just a minute!” Eva chirped at Ivan as she handed Olha back her cash card.

“Take your time,” Ivan replied, and Olha turned around, finally noticing he was there.

She was only a few inches shorter than him and didn’t look too pleased with being forced to look up to meet his eyes. She was probably used to having been known as the tallest of her group and liked it that way. She smiled, though, dark eyes shining.

“You’re in my stats class,” she said and stuck out a hand. Her palm was cold even through Ivan’s glove. “Olha Gorska. Pain in the ass with a great ass. How ‘bout you?”

Ivan chuckled, which made her smile grow. “Ivan Braginsky. Moved here just before Christmas.”

“Figured you’re not from here by how you talk. Midwest? West coast?”

“West coast. I was born here, but I was raised in LA.”

“Nice!” Olha looked over when Eva squeaked, pulling her hand away from the fryer. “You okay, hon?”

Eva whimpered, shoulders shaking. “He’s gonna fire me. I can’t even work the fryer right!”

With more urgency, Olha turned away from Ivan and went to the counter. “Eva—”

“It’s okay—” Ivan started at the same time.

But Eva cut them off as she whirled around and screamed, “Don’t coddle me!” She turned on Ivan. “You just think I’m some crazy cutter, huh?!” She lifted one of her arms to show the cross-hatched scars, some thin and unnoticeable if not for the thick, raised scars alongside them. “You’ve been staring at them since you got here!”

Ivan winced, and when Olha started to speak, Eva turned to her, hands clenched into fists by her sides as the fried pickles began to burn behind her.

“Stop pretending like you care! You just want some other broken toy to fix, and _I’m not fucking broken_!”

Tears streamed down her face, cutting through her under-eye shadow and concealer, and she was so loud that some people passing outside turned, wondering what was going on.

“Eva—” Now Olha sounded like she was choking up, and Eva started, eyes wide and anger drowning in regret and guilt.

“I’m so sorry!” Eva cried, face in her hands as she continued to shake. She ran off into the back, and Olha sighed sharply.

“Switch the sign, will you?” Olha asked Ivan. “I’ll go take care of Eva before her manager gets here and makes things worse.”

“Um, sure.”

Ivan flipped the sign from _Open_ to _Be Back Soon!_ and shrugged when one of the people passing by asked what was happening.

“Accident in the back, I think,” Ivan lied. “Manager’s been called, so things should be settled soon.”

The group moved on, diving back into their previous conversation, and Ivan sighed. Even if she’d been out of line, Eva had had a point—about him anyway; he didn’t know about Olha. He _had_ been looking at her scars since walking in, and he had been judging her, much as he’d tried not to. He’d known she’d noticed, but he’d hoped it would have gone unmentioned and their conversation would have been just like the others.

What could have set her off? Getting burned by the fryer? Ivan had worked at a Five Guys briefly in high school—Thieving Bitch, back when she’d acted like a parent, had wanted him to get a job and learn the value of a dollar. Those things weren’t easy to work, and based on what she’d said Tuesday, it looked like she was brand new at the job and should have someone there observing her. Someone else should be there with her regardless.

If anyone was at fault, it was that manager, really.

Trying not to let Eva’s bad mood affect him, Ivan decided to just go to the cafeteria and get something quick to eat before leaving for class. He could probably wait until dinner, but thanks to the times of his classes, he couldn’t eat lunch, and he was feeling lightheaded.

There was a food court next to the campus bookstore, but while Chick-fil-a didn’t seem to be hurting much from any of the past talks of boycotts, he still didn’t feel right eating there. The other choices at the food courts weren’t appetizing or were being renovated, last Ivan saw, so cafeteria it was.

After paying at the cashier’s counter up front, Ivan saw someone waving—at him.

“Hey, Brendan.” Ivan smiled as he approached the table by the cereal-and-dessert area. Sitting across from the teenager were a girl and guy, the girl familiar. She smiled, seeming to recognize him as well. “Hi, I’m Ivan.”

“You must be Hollywood,” the guy said with a wide smile. He got up, and Ivan saw that he was drastically overdressed for a cafeteria and college in general. A sports coat was draped over the back of his chair, showing a cream-colored waistcoat with gold buttons with matching slacks, and his button-up was pastel blue and lavender stripes. “I’m Theo Hirsch. No relation.”

Ivan took his hand, and when he saw the girl hold up her notebook with an image of Bill Cipher on it, he realized Theo was talking about Alex Hirsch.

“And this is my lovely girlfriend, Grace,” Theo continued. “You’ve already met our son.”

“I’m not your son,” Brendan deadpanned.

“Not now, son. Daddy’s talking.”

“Call yourself ‘Daddy’ again, and we’re breaking up,” Grace said in a flat tone, but her smile ruined the effect.

Theo shrugged, tilting his head so his long, blond bangs shifted away from his left eye for a moment—long enough for Ivan to see that it was several shades paler than his other eye, which was a deep, evergreen color.

“Get something to eat and join us,” said Brendan, and Grace moved her purse from the empty chair. “If Theo didn’t scare you anyway.”

“Excuse you, I am a treat,” Theo responded with faux offense. He then smirked as he looked at Grace out of the corner of his eye, though based on their seating, his bangs should be in the way of him being able to see her. “In other cases, though, I’m a snack.”

Grace covered her mouth as she snorted, trying to remain looking ladylike as she ate her cake, and Brendan buried his reddening face in his hands.

Setting his bag down by the chair, Ivan assured he’d be back and went to find something to eat. There weren’t many people, and there weren’t many choices, either. More food probably wouldn’t be made until dinner time, but there were some slices of garden pizza left, so Ivan grabbed two and filled a cup with more ice than Pepsi before returning to the table, where Brendan was talking about the paranormal investigation club. 

“… about checking it out?” he was asking.

The look on Grace’s face said she didn’t like whatever Brendan had suggested, while Theo looked disinterested.

“Someone mentioned that club to me,” Ivan supplied as he sat down. “He said they meet at Pangea Hall?”

Brendan nodded, and Grace replied, “It’s run by Kuro Takamori and Roland Rilke, though Kuro’s girlfriend has been inserting herself into it more, so I don’t think Roland will put up with it much longer, and half the club will probably leave with him.”

“You say ‘half’ like it’s a big club,” Theo snorted. He took a sip of his hot chocolate. “There’s like three others plus the officers. Artemisia made herself secretary when Aliki—Kuro’s ex,” he said to Ivan, “—quit, and then I think they roped in Stefanía to be treasurer after Alfred turned them down—”

Alfred again. The pizza fell into Ivan’s stomach hard.

“—and then there’s Olha and Jens, and Eva joins them sometimes, since, ya know, pretty much Roland’s the only one who puts up with her.”

“Eva Szenes?” Brendan said her surname slowly, stumbling over the pronunciation. “But she’s nice!”

At the same time, Grace admonished, “She’s trying, Theo. It’s been hard for her, and holding every misstep against her when she’s been doing better isn’t helping anyone.” She glanced at Ivan and calmed down. Her eyes shone behind her glasses, which she adjusted nervously. “I think Eva sits by you and Brendan, yeah?” She motioned towards the nodding Brendan. “He’s mentioned y’all. Anyway, I know she comes across as really peppy at first, and she can get really personal really fast.” She smiled understandably at Ivan’s nod. “She means well.” She glared when Theo snorted. “If she blows up at you, try not to hold it against her. Usually it’s because she’s angry at herself most often, and she’s gotten better, realizing when she’s blown things out of proportion and stopping herself.” 

Ivan remembered how her breakdown earlier had started with her crying that she was going to be fired, admonishing herself for not being able to fry the pickles correctly. He nodded again, and Theo snapped his fingers.

“See?” he said. “She’s blown up already.”

Grace rolled her eyes, and Brendan said, “I’m sure she didn’t mean it, though!”

“Doesn’t matter what you mean when you still cause damage,” said Theo, but his muscles uncoiled at Grace’s look. “I’ll still be nice to her. I’m not gonna upset her on purpose, but coddling her isn’t going to help her, either. Anyway, back to the earlier topic.” He faced Brendan. “You’re not joining that club.”

Oh, so that was why Brendan had brought up the paranormal investigator club.

If Kuro, Olha, and Roland were the same ones he knew, he wasn’t surprised to hear that they were in such a club. He didn’t know Artemisia, but the name itched at his memory. That might be how similar it sounded to Artemis, though.

Brendan’s shoulders fell when Grace nodded, agreeing with Theo.

By the look in Brendan’s eyes, though, he wasn’t about to listen to them. Ivan was pretty sure that any paranormal investigators club was barely more than what Eduard might call a “3edgy5u club,” but if they met at the burned-down remains of Pangea Hall like Antonio said, then there was the risk of getting hurt. Ivan mentioned this, and Brendan perked up, the look on his freckled face saying he was hoping Ivan would be on his side.

“They don’t actually meet inside,” he said. “They meet in the courtyard behind it. It’s safe, I promise.”

“No club run by Roland and Kuro is safe,” Grace grumbled. “And you don’t even believe in ghosts. You just want to find out more about the arsonist.”

 _Oh, right, he likes true crime_ , Ivan remembered, starting on his second slice of pizza and checking the time on his cellphone—still plenty of time before class started. The seemingly sudden interest in the paranormal club made more sense.

“How about I go with him?” Theo suggested when Brendan looked ready to start arguing again. “You can tell your aunt and uncle he’s safe, so they don’t worry, and I’ll promise not to punch Roland in the mouth. No promises with Kuro.”

Theo didn’t look like the sort of person who would punch anyone—more-so due to looking someone who would balk at the thought of getting blood on his clothes—but Eva hadn’t seemed like the sort of person to suddenly blow up the way she had, either.

Frowning as she finished her cake, Grace thought about it. “Okay, fine.” She narrowed her eyes at Brendan’s ecstatic look. “Get yourself hurt, and I’ll haunt you when Uncle Abel and Aunt Gwen kill me.”

So, they were cousins; that explained the ease of their conversation and why Grace and Theo were so comfortable taking on the authority role with Brendan. Ivan wondered why Brendan didn’t sit by Grace in their psychology class, but he figured Brendan had wanted to try making friends without her help.

“Where are you heading after this?” Theo asked Ivan, looking happy to change the subject. He leaned back in his chair, cup and plate empty.

Setting down his half-burnt crust, Ivan answered, “Bible lit with Dr. Adebayo.”

“You religious?” Theo asked. His tone wasn’t snide or dismissive; he seemed genuinely interested.

He was obviously blunt, but he wasn’t harsh about it. The way Grace eyed him, though, showed that Theo’s bluntness had made him taste his foot more than once, and religion in general tended to be an uneasy subject to bring up among near-strangers.

Their easy talk about the paranormal investigators club and Theo’s suggestion to bring Brendan himself told Ivan they weren’t part of Viktor’s church. He didn’t know if they might let something slip to someone who was, though. Webs had many threads, and Viktor’s was a black widow’s web—no pattern for him to easily make out and weave around without getting caught.

“I go to church,” answered Ivan cryptically, and he hoped the slight hitch in his voice was just his imagination. The quizzical way Brendan looked at him, though, said it wasn’t.

“Raised in it, or are you a born-again?” Theo asked, seeming not to have noticed the shift in mood. “Pretty much everyone back at my neighborhood back home was nonreligious, so I felt like a fish out of water when I first got here. First question I heard from almost everyone was what church I went to, followed by one-hundred-and-one verses when I said I never went. I just lie now.”

“He moved here from Vermont,” Grace explained, looking to change the subject again. “Even people from here are always surprised that a small college in Mississippi has one of the best history departments in the country.” She chuckled, probably having been one of those surprised people. “The psychology department’s still getting worked on, but it’s still really good. That’s what you came here for?”

Ivan hadn’t known how good the psychology department was here, and he shook his head.

“He’s majoring in creative writing!” Brendan inputted, looking proud of himself for remembering, and Ivan smiled. “The English department here’s good, too, according to Julchen.”

Julchen? That name itched at Ivan’s brain too, and when someone passed by with a plate of French fries, he remembered that some people had called Maria Julchen. Antonio had, until she’d corrected him.

Ivan nodded, though he hadn’t known that either—he’d been assuming this whole time that all the classes would be simple, until he saw how many assignments were posted on his Blackboard. “I moved here to be with family, actually. My parents divorced when I was little”—Anya and Nicholas never married, but details were unimportant—“but my dad passed away earlier this year, so I moved back here with my mom and sisters.”

Half-sister, aunt/adopted sister, and soon-to-be-sister-in-law, but, again, details of the insanity encompassing Ivan’s life were unimportant.

“So, looks like Brendan’s the only one here with the Picket Fence Family,” Theo joked, and Ivan actually laughed, having been braced for condolences on his loss.

Brendan stuck out his tongue, and Grace told Ivan, “I live with my dad and step-mom, and Gods know where my bio mom is”—Ivan wasn’t sure if he misheard her saying _Gods_ instead of _God—_ “and Theo was raised by his grandparents.”

“Who come from old money, so don’t feel too bad for me,” said Theo blithely, but there was something behind it. Ivan didn’t push, though. He felt relaxed with them and didn’t want to ruin that. “Any of your sisters go here, though? The rest of us are those terrible, spoiled, only-child brats.”

Grace and Brendan both rolled their eyes, and Ivan chuckled.

“Nat’s a senior in high school,” he replied, “and Kat already has two Bachelor’s, since she double-majored in English and business, and she’s aiming for a Master’s in marketing.”

“Ooh, sounds lucrative,” Theo said.

With an exhale, Ivan shook his head. “Not yet. Mostly just debt.”

Grace groaned. “I’m going to be up to my ears in debt no matter what I do.”

The conversation turned to scholarships, grants, and student loans as they talked. Ivan learned that Grace wanted to go into clinical-forensic psychology, and Theo wanted to focus on diplomatic and military history. They were easy to talk to, and he took Theo up on his offer to join him and some of his friends at a nearby pizzeria on Saturday night. There’d be a poetry reading, and while it was too late for Ivan to sign up, Theo said he could get a feel for the atmosphere and audience.

Poetry wasn’t Ivan’s forte, but the suggestion was thoughtful. He might consider reading something one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I'd given Theo a bigger role; I love him. I'm not smart or witty enough to write his dialogue like I want it to sound, but I love him.


	22. Sober Edits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Adebayo = Kenya  
> Jens = 2p!Norway

_ “Take time everyday to shift from immersion in human-centric thinking to ecoexperience.” ~ Selena Fox _

“As I told you all on Tuesday, we will be starting with the Book of Mark.” Dr. Adebayo opened her Oxford Bible and set it on the podium by the desk.

At her cue, the guy sitting closest to the door hit the lights, but the projector never came on.

“Does this mean class is cancelled?” someone asked, a few chuckling.

Dr. Adebayo exhaled sharply and motioned for the lights to come back on. “Nope, just means you’ll have to decode my handwriting.” She turned and pulled on the white projection screen to make it shoot back up into the holder above the blackboard, and she picked up a piece of chalk and started writing. “Who here has heard of the Q Source?”

Some hands went up, and people started to speak up before Dr. Adebayo’s sharp look made them quiet.

“Yes.” She pointed at a girl Ivan vaguely recognized from Tuesday, sitting in the row to his left. She already had an Oxford Bible full of translucent tabs sticking out from the pages, and it was open to Mark. She’d already started highlighting passages and writing notes in the margins. “Erzsébet, go ahead.”

Erzsébet lowered her hand and nodded, Ivan able to see just enough of her face to see that color had risen to her freckled cheeks. “The Q Source is a hypothesis that there was a collection of Jesus’s sayings, possibly a combination of written and oral tradition, and it was proposed around the same time as the Marcan priority was proposed.” She toyed with her long braid as she spoke, and she had a subtle accent—Ivan couldn’t place it, however. “Matthew and Luke both have commonalities with Mark, suggesting their writers borrowed from that gospel, and it’s proposed that they drew from Q, too.”

Dr. Adebayo nodded. “This hypothesis is disputed, however.” She went back to writing on the chalkboard, and Ivan tried to focus on taking notes.

He’d skimmed the gospel more than read it. Parts had been interesting, he’d admit, but _The Dark Lake_ or _The Thirteenth Tale_ it was not.

“There are other hypotheses, like the Three-source Hypothesis and the Four-source Hypothesis, both of which we will discuss further when we start reading Matthew next week…”

She started talking about the Marcan priority that Erzsébet had mentioned, saying Mark was believed to be the earliest-written canonical gospel. She talked about verses nine through twenty in the final chapter being a later addition, and, amazingly, there were few interruptions—but, then, the class looked smaller than it had on Tuesday.

Dr. Adebayo spoke quickly but backtracked to explain further whenever asked. All the questions asked showed pretty much everyone here knew a lot more about the subject matter than Ivan did, making him feel years behind, but he managed to keep up when taking notes. Funny how he’d first told Kateryna back in LA that his classes would be easy due to the school being in Mississippi. It hadn’t taken long for him to start eating those words.

He was finding everything more interesting than he’d first assumed already, but Dr. Adebayo mostly helped on that front. It was obvious from her body language that she was passionate about the Bible, but whether from strictly a historical and literary standpoint or if she held it up as a holy book, too, he was unable to tell.

He didn’t mind either way, but when class ended what felt like much too early, he was made painfully aware that he didn’t have a topic for this week. He had until tonight to think of something and tomorrow night write about it, but it would be cutting things close.

“Those of you with a topic,” Dr. Adebayo said as people put away their things, “tell me as you leave. If someone before you has your same topic, tough. First come, first serve, like I said Tuesday. I’ll put all the taken topics up on Blackboard and update them as they come in. Email me what you want to write about, and I want links to your blogs so I can go ahead and make a list of them on Blackboard. I want y’all to have plenty of time to read and critique each other’s writing.”

“Great…,” one guy said as he cracked his spine on the back of his chair.

While Dr. Adebayo had said there would be plenty of topics to choose from each book to write about, Ivan doubted that as he got up. Erzsébet was already at the front desk, the guy that was sitting in front of Ivan on Tuesday right behind her.

 _Naguib_ , Ivan remembered.

“I’d like to make my topic comparing the Book of Mark to the formula used in Greek tragedies,” Erzsébet told Dr. Adebayo, who nodded as she wrote that down.

“Goddammit!” someone walking up to the desk hissed, and someone else laughed at them, prompting Dr. Adebayo to tell them to quiet down and use civil language when in the classroom.

Erzsébet left quickly, nose in another book, and Naguib announced he wanted to write about the illnesses Jesus healed—specifically leprosy—and talk about how it could be symbolism for Jesus healing souls. The person after him asked if it was okay to compare Mark’s prose to Paul’s letters, even though they hadn’t started on the Pauline letters yet. Dr. Adebayo said it was fine, and the guy smiled and pumped his fist in the air, making some laugh and the professor smile. Another person wanted to focus on Mark’s repeated use of the word “immediately,” and someone nearly bowled three people over to claim the topic of John the Baptist’s beheading.

Ivan suddenly felt very stupid at having not been able to think of anything and scurried out of the classroom, nearly running into Olha, who raised her hands and leaned back as she smirked.

“Slow down there, Hollywood,” she laughed. “Late for Sappho’s class? ‘Cause I can save you the effort: If the door’s closed, she ain’t lettin’ your ass in.”

“Sappho?” Ivan followed her lead by stepping closer to the wall as people passed them by.

Olha switched her coffin-shaped purse’s strap to her other shoulder, pulling on her dark, translucent shirt, which showed off the dark red bandeau worn underneath. A heart with devil horns and a tail hung was pierced into her belly button.

“Dr. Adnan,” she clarified. “A lot of the English majors call her Dr. Sappho, even though she’s not exactly living on Lesbos, but her son says she’s bi, so it still fits. You’ve probably met him—the son. He’s always wandering around here like a zombie, and kinda hard to miss someone named Herakles.”

She was chattier than before, her cadence reminding Ivan more of Eva. Speaking of: “I haven’t met him, but I haven’t been here long. Hey, though, how’s Eva? I felt kind of bad just leaving her like that.”

Olha broke eye contact, the look on her face showing her chattering had been to put off talking about that. She smiled slightly after a while, though, and her eyes rose to meet Ivan’s again as she answered, “Thanks for checking up. Most run for the hills. She’s doing okay, but I’m worried she might not keep that job long.”

“Bullshit if she’s fired,” Ivan grunted. “She’s new. She shouldn’t be left alone in the first place.”

“Which is the only reason why she’s still there,” Olha groused. “Chaja’s not about to tell the manager she’d left Eva there alone, so she could smoke behind the weed bush.”

Ivan knew she was talking about one of the bushes in front of Pannotia Hall. He’d already heard others talk about it and had had someone offer him to smoke with him, saying Ivan needed to learn to chill. Apparently even some security guards could be found smoking behind it and agreed not to turn you in if you shared.

Olha continued, “She leaves after the lunch rush, and hardly anyone comes in until dinner, but still.” She huffed, fingers twitching. She smelled like cigarette smoke and looked like she needed another. “Anyway, if I get to complaining about Chaja, I’m gonna end up being late for Herakles’s class.” She noticed Ivan’s confused look. “Well, _Mr. Karpusi’s_ I guess. He’s an adjunct and grad student here. Hard not to be all formal with him now.” She was smiling again. “Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

“See you around.” Ivan waved as she headed further down the hall, breaking into a run when she spotted someone. Ivan pulled his bag further up as he saw Olha catch up to a guy with white-blond hair and a floral-print shirt, kicking him in the butt before he could turn around to see who was there.

He was so busy watching their interaction that he didn’t notice Dr. Adebayo come up from behind. She grinned when Ivan jumped a bit and didn’t bother to apologize. She probably found pleasure in being able to scare him when she didn’t even come to his shoulder.

“Couldn’t think of a topic yet, Mr. Braginsky?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” Ivan scratched the back of his head, feeling like a kid again being called up to the front of the classroom. “Um, I’ll figure something out soon. I’m still getting into the swing of classwork again, and I don’t really know anything about the material. It’s all brand new.”

She looked incredulous, but Ivan wasn’t sure how to add on to that.

“The deacon’s son doesn’t know the Bible?” she finally asked when Ivan didn’t say anything.

His expression fell, and his eyes went to the tile floor. Ah, of course people would know who he was. He’d hoped to just be the new kid from LA, all while knowing his family’s reputation would catch up with him eventually.

“Step-son,” he finally responded, voice barely more than a grumble. “Told him I went to church growing up. He wouldn’t have let me stay with them otherwise.”

Dr. Adebayo’s expression melted into sympathy, and she patted Ivan on the arm. “Your secret’s safe with me, and I look forward to reading your thoughts if your eyes are as fresh as you say. Even atheists I’ve had in this class were still raised Christian and still viewed the text through those lens. I won’t be going easy on you, though, so leave the ‘still getting into the swing of things’ excuse for Mr. Williams or Dr. Jones.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ivan tried for a smile, which Dr. Adebayo returned before excusing herself.

The writing clinic was nearby, and other than a tall man with long, dark brown hair at the desk, there were only two people in the room. There were Macs on long tables along the back and adjacent wall, a large dining room-like table in the center, and there was a sitting area to the left of the door, the two people sitting on the couch and looking through a small notebook with one of those annoying, cheap plastic bindings. The cover looked like a print, the slapped-on words reading _Sober Edits_ in a bubbly font that made comic sans look professional.

 _“Graphic design is my passion!”_ Ivan heard the thought in Eduard’s voice.

“Hmm?” The man at the large desk in front of the bulletin board looked up from a pile of papers—what class did he teach that had already had essays due?

Then he remembered Dr. Jones assigning the essay on _Wise Blood_ on the first day of class. Looked like other professors were following suit.

“Are there positions open to be a proofreader?” Ivan asked tentatively.

Nodding, the man opened the top drawer and held up some papers that were connected with a clip. “Turn these in sometime next week, and since Docs Sappho and Faith will tan my hide if I don’t ask, consider joining the writing club. It meets here, and first meeting’s next Wednesday, five. PM, because idiots actually think people willingly get up at five in the morning. You don’t have to join if you wanna submit anything.” He jutted a thumb back at the bulletin board behind him. There was a flyer from October talking about the fiction writing contest Hedvika and Antonio mentioned earlier. “Next one’s a poetry contest for Valentine’s Day, and ‘cause I’m always a judge, I’m just going to tell you now that those edgy woe-is-me-love-is-dead poems are overdone. Just write something cheesy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ivan blinked. “Um, sir.”

“Williams. Mister or Prof. I’m not a doctor, yet. Or ever.” He shrugged and combed his hair back from his angular face with his fingers. The half-moons under his eyes made them look more grey than blue, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. “Hell, call me Prof Asshole.” He gestured to the people on the couch. “They do.”

“My poem wasn’t derivative,” said the guy with long, black hair and a face powdered to make it look even whiter. His nails were painted black, and he wore a spiked collar and a black T-shirt with an unreadable, thorn-like white font design over the chest—a metal band, most likely. “You just wanted to use a multi-syllabic word for once.”

“Funny. That’s pretty much what I thought when I read your poem,” Mr. Williams lobbed back. His expression remained even, almost bored, but it was easy to tell nonetheless that he was teasing. “Go back to the skeleton war meme poems with your friends.”

At the same time, the guy wearing red eyeliner and a rainbow flower crown snorted, “Jens, you can only write poems when you’re clicking on random words in _Doki Doki_.”

“Shut up, Lutz.”

Lutz stuck out his tongue, showing off the spider-shaped piercing, and Mr. Williams turned back to Ivan. “Those two are reading the university’s literary magazine if you want to borrow a copy and see what the others usually submit.”

Ivan blinked. He could just borrow one? He couldn’t see why someone would steal one, but still. “Sure. Thank you.”

“Head’s up.”

Just in time, Ivan dodged as Mr. Williams caught the literary magazine the two guys had been reading. Lutz had tossed it like a disc and retrieved another copy from atop the bookcase next to the couch.

“Read the stories by Maria Beilschmidt and Vera Masarykova,” he suggested, and Jens nodded. “One of ‘em at least shoulda won. Williams, the contests are rigged, just letting you know.”

“I’m only one of ten judges,” said Mr. Williams, “and everyone likes Lifetime movie-type shit.”

“Thanks,” Ivan told them, and Lutz offered a thumbs-up as Ivan left the room, waving to the two guys as he left.

Mr. Williams waved as he made another quip at Jens’s expense, and Ivan skimmed over the first page of the application before stopping to put the whole thing in his bag. He then looked at the literary magazine, the cover slightly thicker than the interior pages with a clipart picture—redone to be black-and-white—of a typewriter in the center, part of its right side cut off. The title in the bubbly font was above it, and below was _Fall 2016 – Spring 2017_.

There were no art or graphic design students in the club, evidently, and Ivan felt guilty for being relieved that that probably meant he wouldn’t be running into Alfred there.

He seemed to be everywhere or at least knew everyone. If he was from here, that made sense, but Ivan couldn’t afford his mind being taken over. His walls were up for a reason, and he wasn’t going to let some cute guy chip away at them.

But it looked like even if Alfred himself wasn’t in the club, Maria—or Julchen—might be.

On the first page was the table of contents, and Julchen’s name was listed four times, one being next to the second-place title for the Halloween story contest. The Vera person Lutz had mentioned won honorable mention for the spring fiction contest. He recognized Theo’s name next to the titles of poems from the autumn, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day poetry contests. Antonio’s name was next to some short fiction and poems, and there were some names from Dr. Adnan’s class, like Hedvika, Simón, and Mei.

Based on the titles of the unthemed fiction contest in autumn, Ivan saw that Mr. Williams might have had a point, if harsh. He walked towards the stairwell as he skimmed over the winners, seeing that all of them were literary fiction—or appeared to be that way at first glance, anyhow. He’d read short stories that started out seeming to be literary before suddenly showing sci-fi or paranormal twists.

Upon reaching the first floor, Ivan paused, listening.

Shit. It was raining. His car was off-campus. Double shit.

He couldn’t be late for dinner.

Exhaling sharply, stuffed the literary journal into his bag, deep enough so hopefully it wouldn’t get wet, he buttoned up his coat, put on his gloves, and then he ran. He ran from building to building, pausing soon as he reached an overhand to catch his breath. He got all the way to the back side of the library, already soaked through and the rain not looking any lighter than it had been earlier.

“Yo. Ivan, right?”

Turning, Ivan saw the guy that had brought Julchen fries and Gatorade in statistics yesterday.

“Um, yeah.” Ivan drew himself up and tried to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”

“Mathias Abildgaard.” He stuck out his gloved hand, which Ivan took with a smile. In his other hand was a to-go cup. “Need a ride? My car’s a pile of junk, so you don’t need to worry none about dripping on the seats.”

“Thank you, and I’m Ivan Braginsky.” Ivan smiled, and he started to breathe more easily. “I parked up in the square.”

“Cheaped out on the decals?” Mathias laughed. “Don’t blame you. I have parking where I won’t get checked by security down to an art. C’mon. I was on my way out anyway to beg my friend to help me pass math.”

Ivan chuckled, and the two rushed to a black Pontiac in the parking lot behind the library. “I understand that. None of my math credits transferred. I’m not too happy about it.”

One big point for HU, at least, was that it was on a semester schedule, instead of quarters. Whenever he’d mentioned quarters to anyone, he’d even had to explain it. Maybe it was more of a west coast thing. It was a tactic the colleges used to burn out students and make them too tired to protest, according to Kristjanis.

“Oh, God, that sucks,” said Mathias as he got into the car and put his cup in the holder. “Where in the square did you park?”

Ivan pushed the seat back when Mathias told him how and dropped his bag between his legs. “In front of that garden the road goes around. Across from the thrift store.”

“Got it.” Mathias patted his dash when the engine came to life. He glanced at Ivan, who was trying not to shiver, out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry about no heat. Barely scraping by, and gas and rent eats away at my paycheck enough to get anything fixed.”

“It’s fine,” Ivan assured. “I didn’t expect it to get this cold here, being so far south.”

Mathias nodded, and he turned right instead of left, away from the main road, which confused Ivan. “Winters have been real weird lately. Last year, the coldest it got was maybe the high fifties, and now it’s like it’s trying to make up for lost time. Hell, it even snowed last month. Just some flurries, but it was enough to make the bread and milk go scarce.”

Ivan chuckled. “I heard about that. I got here just after that happened. My sister Manon complained that the one time she actually wants French toast, there’s no bread.”

Laughing as he took another right to head down a road so narrow that it had to be a one-way, Mathias replied, “Linnea—my girlfriend—was the same way about the milk. She hates instant cocoa and only makes it heating up milk and mixing in chocolate and butter—hey, don’t knock it; it’s actually real good. And anyway, she was craving hot cocoa that whole time.”

“I didn’t know about this road,” Ivan commented as Mathias pulled over so far that they were half in the grass, a truck going the other way and passing them.

So, this wasn’t a one-way street, just a poorly-planned one. Of course.

Getting back more on the road and going faster, Mathias nodded once. “Routine. I work at the bar just before the square. It’s tucked a bit away, so this road’s best for getting to the lot on time, and there’s more parking behind the stores in the square behind them than up front.”

“Huh.” Ivan would have to make note of that.

“You old enough to drink? The bar’s run by a couple of the frat houses, but don’t let that paint your opinion right away. Most of them are cool dudes, and they have zero tolerance for harassment. They make some mean drinks, too, if you like mixed ones.”

“I’m old enough, yeah. I’ll check it out.” Ivan just turned twenty-one two weeks ago, on the thirtieth. He’d forgotten, to be honest.

Everyone had, with all the changes happening. Even Manon and Kateryna, but that probably meant they were planning something big to surprise him with to make up for it.

Oblivious to what was going on in Ivan’s head, Mathias kept talking to fill the space as he drove. “… is good, too, but their pizza isn’t really the best, to be honest. Most people just go there for the milkshakes. They do seasonal stuff, and Mrs. Elfie’s peppermint milkshake is really good. It’ll still be around until the end of the month. Same for the gingerbread and eggnog flavors.”

“I’m not a fan of gingerbread or eggnog, to be honest, but peppermint sounds good,” Ivan said, trying to focus on the conversation. “I don’t eat out a lot, but I was invited to join a couple people there”—he assumed it was the same pizza place—“on Saturday.”

“The poetry reading?” Mathia smirked. “God, Theo is still mad at me and Jens for the skeleton war poem, I’m sure.”

Did these people just all know each other, or was Ivan only meeting those that happened to be strands of the web with Alfred at its middle?

“Theo Hirsch?”

“That’s him!” Mathias grinned and turned right again, the even narrower road taking them to the main one connecting to the square. “He and Vasil are always looking for fresh meat. They’re hoping to rope in more people to buy _Sober Edits_ and get the writing club some money for once. That one yours?” He pointed to the lone car across from the thrift store, and he parked next to it after Ivan affirmed. “Hope to see you around! It was good talking to you!”

“Same here, and thank you again!” Ivan started getting out.

“No problem!”

Ivan got into his car quickly as possible, and Mathias drove off.

Chucking his bag into the passenger seat, Ivan leaned back and sighed heavily. He was wet and cold, but his car was having trouble with heat, too. He didn’t have much money, and while working at the writing clinic would be nice, it looked to be for getting extra credits and covering the cost of two classes, not earning cash.

He needed a job.

“One problem at a time,” Ivan muttered, buckling himself in and turning on the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the off chance anyone from my college recognizes the inspiration for Sober Edits: I'm not making fun of y'all's cover designs for the literary journal. I just made this one up, because my drunk-at-the-time ass thought it was funny, and sober me doesn't hate it enough to change it.


	23. Year of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of homophobia when Alice and Marianne arrive at the shop and Alice talks about running into the social worker at the grocery store.
> 
> Ngoc Han Nguyen = Vietnam  
> Blanche = nyo!Cameroon

_ “Know that the only remedy for love is to love more.” ~  _ The Rules of Magic _ by Alice Hoffman _

“Really?” Alfred eyed the to-go cup in Mathias’s hand as he approached.

Alfred had come to Patchwork Spirit about a half-hour ago. He had ended up hitching a ride with Lise and Julchen; both had threatened to knock him out and drag him in the car when they saw him jogging alongside the highway. His cellphone was between the abnormal psychology print-outs and his garden latte, which had jasmine and some other edible flowers infused into the coffee.

Mathias sat down across from him and shrugged. “Forgot I asked you to help me until after I already bought it.” He set it down and got out a portion of his loose-leaf math textbook. “Oh!” He took out his cellphone and handed it to Al after bringing up a picture. “What d’you think?”

It was a screenshot of a simple sterling silver band with a circular golden-yellow stone flanked by small, golden wings. Alfred smiled, seeing that it was a flying snitch ring, and according to the description, the stone was a lab-created yellow sapphire, which kept the price just under one-hundred.

“Holy shit, she’ll love this!” Alfred handed the phone back. “You’re still planning on a Valentine’s proposal?”

Giddiness painting him, Mathias didn’t seem able to sit still. He looked just as nervous as he was excited as he set his phone down and got out his notes. “Yeah, I’m planning on taking her to that restaurant in Imperial Palace that night. My dad can help us get in for cheap, and my aunt finally found her heart and is letting us use her timeshare there.”

As he was talking, Matthew walked up to take Mathias’s order and gasped. “Oh, that sounds lovely! Did you find a ring? I’m sorry we didn’t have anything in our inventory that felt right. Gil said y’all looked through everything thrice-over.”

Alfred exhaled more than laughed as he brought his latte to his lips.

“It’s fine,” Mathias assured. “I feel a lot better now that I finally found something, and this is an independent seller, too, which I know Linnea would really appreciate.” He pulled up the picture again to show Matthew, whose eyes lit up. “ _The Philosopher’s Stone_ —she’s always really particular about using that title—was the first chapter book she read by herself. She said her dad had been in England for work and got it for her, and Linnea and her dad had this tradition where they’d dress up in robes her mom made and watch the movies together the day they came out.”

“Linnea’s a Syltherin and her dad was a Ravenclaw.” Alfred smiled, having heard the stories too.

Linnea’s dad passed away suddenly from a heart attack two years ago, a couple weeks into her freshman year at HU. Alfred had found her crying in the library, in one of the study cubicles in the YA fiction section. Her trembling hands were holding onto the library’s copy of _Goblet of Fire_ , which she later told Alfred was her dad’s favorite book in the series.

Alfred had been a senior in high school and had wandered off from the tour group. Ludwig had found him, but whatever reprimand he’d had ready died on his tongue soon as he found Alfred holding the girl close, reading the part where Harry rescued Fleur’s sister from the lake aloud as tears slid silently down both their cheeks.

Matthew’s eyes softened as he smiled, handing the phone back to Mathias. “That is really thoughtful; I’m sure she’ll be beside herself. She’s such a lucky woman.”

“I just want her to feel as lucky as I do.” Mathias cleared his throat. “But, uh, before this gets too mushy, maybe I should figure out how to pass my math exam next Tuesday. Lin might have second thoughts if I fail.”

“You must have Kiku,” Matthew said, and he chuckled when Mathias nodded solemnly. “Brilliant man, but he forgets people aren’t generally on the same level as him.” He looked up when Andras walked into the café area and called his name. “Dr. Rogue?”

Andras combed his long, green-tipped, light brown bangs back away from his round face. He wore a shirt that said _Descendant of the Witches You Couldn’t Burn_ and ripped jeans, and one of Vash’s flannel shirts was tied around his hips by the sleeves. Vash hadn’t been by the shop since the open Winter Solstice circle; a couple of his fellow officers had found out about him and Andras and started giving him hell about it. He’d been getting his library science degree and had already sent out applications to HU’s library, the town library, and libraries in nearby towns and cities.

Alfred was looking forward to seeing Vash around more often. He had the reputation of being a sourpuss, but when he was with Andras, he melted into a teddy bear.

“Already upstairs,” Andras replied. He smiled kindly, but his green eyes gave away his nervousness. Marta Edelstein had that effect on most people, not just her students. “I can take over the café. These two are the only ones here, and they won’t cause trouble?” His gaze turned playful as Mathias and Alfred smiled innocently. “Right?”

“Never caused trouble in my life,” Alfred said as he crossed his heart. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matthew shake his head as he headed towards the doorway between the café area and main shopping area.

“Never,” Mathias agreed, and he asked for a black coffee—his coffee from the campus café was already cold.

“See you two later,” Matthew said. “Good luck with Kiku, Mathias!” He brightened suddenly as he passed through the doorway. “Merry meet! Are you looking for anything specific or simply browsing?”

Andras took Mathias’s to-go cup and promised to be back soon with “real coffee.”

It was ready as Alfred moved into the chair closer to Mathias, walking him through a two-by-three matrix multiplication problem. Another customer had come into the café, sitting at the table behind them, and Andras went back and forth between checking on them and helping customers find what they needed in the shop.

Mathias worked slowly at first and swore under his breath at mistakes, but it wasn’t too long before he started picking up speed. He had done these equations back in high school, but that was nearly five years ago, so he needed a refresher. As he started doing the other problems without needing help, Gilbert entered the café area, looking nervously hopeful with guilt mixed through.

Without speaking, Mathias and Alfred looked up. Behind him, Andras came in with Blanche, a regular, behind him.

“Peter’s case worker had to leave the state,” Gilbert began, voice shaking. He jumped when Matthew arrived and took his hand, and he smiled, then frowned, then looked like he wasn’t entirely sure what sort of expression he should be making.

Everyone remained silent, waiting to hear more. Alfred held his breath, and Mathias placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

Behind Andras and Blanche was Dr. Edelstein, arms crossed and narrow face neutral. She remained quiet, waiting to hear what was going on.

Gilbert could no longer hold back a smile, and his pale blue eyes shone with tears as he faced Matthew and took his other hand, squeezing both. They looked at each other like they were the only people in the room. “Dr. Nguyen has taken over Peter’s case.”

Alfred gasped, and Mathias blinked but remained silent. Blanche, usually cool and composed, covered her wide mouth. She was an empath, and the strength of Matthew’s and Gilbert’s love and hope and excitement and anxiety and joy were clearly crashing straight through her. Dr. Edelstein, now smiling as well, helped Blanche stay upright when she swayed a bit, and Andras asked if that meant Peter would be coming home with them soon.

Dr. Ngoc Han Nguyen was a professor in the sociology department at HU and thus didn’t take as many cases as other social workers. She was known, though, for being thorough and fair as well as an advocate for equality; she wasn’t about to stonewall Matthew and Gilbert like the other social worker.

Gilbert nodded. “I really think so. Peter’s foster parents are hopeful. They think we’ll get to take him home before spring.” He trembled as he looked into his husband’s eyes. “We all have a meeting with her tomorrow.”

Tears streamed down Matthew’s flushed cheeks, and Alfred found himself tearing up too. Andras had the biggest smile on his face as he held his fists in front of his chest and he bounced on the balls of his feet. He looked like an anime character, and Alfred couldn’t help but snort a laugh at the sight.

“Thank the Goddess,” Matthew breathed, leaning onto his husband, who moved his hands, so he could wrap his arms around him. “Peter’s coming home.”

Gilbert rose to his toes to pull Matthew down somewhat so they could meet in a kiss.

“Better get started on that collection of dad jokes,” Mathias butted in, making the two men laugh and Alfred smile as he rolled his eyes.

Though, honestly, if Mathias hadn’t cut through the emotional moment, he probably would have.

After a round of congratulations and calls to parents in-between helping customers coming into the shop, it was just Matthew, Gilbert, Andras, Alfred, and Mathias. Alice and Marianne were on their way, Gilbert’s mom was facetiming with Gilbert and Matthew. She’d moved to East Hanover, New York after Ludwig moved to NYC, but she promised to fly down soon to see her new grandbaby.

“I still want more!” she exclaimed just before Gilbert hung up, and Matthew laughed.

“I do, too,” Matthew confided, and Gilbert’s grimace became a lopsided smile. “But this alone has been so hard…”

Gilbert hugged Matthew as Alfred received a text from Alice telling him to let her and Marianne inside.

“Not all case workers are going to be like that bitch,” Mathias said, and Andras nodded before apologizing.

“Go on,” Matthew told Andras. “I don’t need to be on Vash’s bad side for keeping you from y’all’s date night.”

“Go out the back door,” Alfred said. “Mom and Mam are there, waiting to be let in.”

Andras laughed as he headed towards the kitchen. “Goin’ that way anyway. My bag’s under the sink.”

“We can have other children,” Gilbert assured Matthew, scooting his chair closer to hold him close. “Even if it means having to raise man-child Alfred forever.”

“Hey!” Alfred objected as Alice and Marianne could be heard from the kitchen.

“Running off already, are you?” Alice asked Andras, and at the same time, Marianne said, “Tell Vash to come over soon. My truffles on New Years came out too bitter. I need some pointers for next time.”

“I’ll let him know!” Andras promised as he left. “Meeting him now at his place. It’s his turn to cook, and no way I’m dumb enough to be late for that.”

“Have a good time!” Marianne called as Alice came into the café area.

She was dressed in a lavender button-up under a tan blazer, and she was wearing the Deathly Hallows bow tie Alfred had given her as a birthday present last year. Her hair was spiked up in the front, and she wore her large, metal-framed, rounded glasses, which made her green eyes look huge thanks to how thick the lens were—she usually wore contacts for that reason.

“Mam!” Matthew jumped up and met Alice in a huge hug, and Gilbert was right behind.

“Wait for me!” Marianne cried, holding her too-long, tiered white skirt up above her bright red boots, which had thin heels so tall that she was practically walking en pointe. “Alfred, Mathias, get over here and join us, too! This is amazing news, and joy like this is meant to be shared as much as possible!”

Alice chuckled, and she and Matthew let go enough to pull her into the embrace, and Alfred and Mathias soon joined.

Once the hug ended, Alfred felt warm and giddy, like two extra shots of espresso had been added to his latte. Alfred offered to go make tea for everyone so that Gilbert could explain again what had happened.

He didn’t know much about the old case worker’s predicament, but her mom had apparently been sick for a long time and finally passed away last night. From what Peter’s foster father had been able to gather, there were issues involving what the insurance was willing to cover in terms of treatment and hospice care.

“It’s horrible that a tragedy had to take place for something good to happen,” Marianne sighed as she adjusted her cat eye glasses. “I do hope things get settled for her.”

“I hope more for the other members of her family more than for her,” Alice groused as she accepted tea from Alfred. “Thank you, dear.” She huffed. “She has tried to block this adoption at every single turn. She repeatedly said you two are not fit to parent and has told _me_ that she would have not hesitated to take you or Alfred from us had she been working back then—”

“You never told me about that,” Alfred said as he set two cups in front of Matthew and Gilbert.

Marianne and Matthew looked over at her; they hadn’t heard about this either.

Alice sighed heavily and took a long sip of tea. “I had the misfortune of running into her at the grocery store. She was with a friend and made a comment about my clothes, saying it was ‘reprehensible’”—she spat out the word—“how women dressed like men and vice versa nowadays. She then brought up ‘the gays that wouldn’t stop bothering her’ and how she refused to put a child into a home where ‘the sins of Sodom’ would be on display. It was then that… I lost my cool.”

“Mam!” Matthew paled.

“I know, I’m sorry!” Alice couldn’t look at him. “I hated myself afterwards. I wasn’t sorry for what I said, but—”

“She was just going to find whatever reasons she could pull out of her ass anyways,” Gilbert assured, waving away her apology.

Mathias nodded. “And it doesn’t matter now. Dr. Nguyen taught my and Linnea’s soc class. She’ll know Matt and Gil would make amazing parents right away.”

Matthew and Gilbert smiled, and Marianne nodded.

“Only blind hate would make anyone not see that,” said Alfred as he sat down. His latte was still warm, and Matthias hadn’t wanted anything else. “That woman’s proof of that.”

“When do you think Peter will be coming home?” Marianne asked, hands clasped in front of her as her blue eyes sparkled. “Will he be sharing a room with Juniper? Or will he take Jan’s and Yon Su’s old room? I can help you clean it up and paint it! I’m sure Colette will help, too.”

“You want Colette near Jan?” Alice asked, eyebrows raised, and Marianne’s smile fell.

“Ooh… right…”

Colette was a former TERF, and while she’d grown past that and was now a vocal ally for the other letters of the LGBTQ+, things she used to say had left deep scars. Janice had received many of them when she started dating Yon Su, Colette proclaiming she was shutting herself away back in the closet and how she was setting lesbians back by letting herself be trapped with a man.

Alice fired her from _Lavender Menace_ three years ago when she tried to run a comic condemning bisexual women and trans women as being “spies” for the patriarchy, infiltrating lesbian spaces.

When Marianne befriended her about a year ago, after Colette apologized and swore she was doing better, she and Alice had fought. Alice still didn’t want anything to do with Colette, but Marianne was a big believer in second chances.

“Refusing to forgive allows them to be trapped right back in that safety hate provided them,” she’d said, and Alice finally relented but said she didn’t have to be friends with Colette, too.

Alfred couldn't blame her; he didn't really want to be around Colette, either. The memory of Colette calling Andras a “gender traitor” still riled him up like nothing else, and he didn’t want to think about what she’d said about him when he’d started transitioning.

Gilbert laughed. “We still have the interview tomorrow, and I’m sure there will be a shit-ton of paperwork, and we’ve talked with the others and decided separate rooms for the kids would be good, but we want to ask Peter’s opinion, too. We don’t know if he’d even like having his own room. Lud hated sleeping alone as a kid. Mom said he even asked for a little brother, so they could share a room. But even if Peter _wants_ to share, there’s Juni’s feelings to keep in account, too.”

“There’s also Jan’s baby,” Matthew whispered before his eyes suddenly went wide.

Marianne’s jaw dropped as Alice choked on her tea.

“Janice is pregnant?” Mathias questioned, and Gilbert snorted a laugh as Matthew covered his mouth. He turned to look at Alfred’s grin, which he’d failed to hide behind his cup. “You knew?!”

“She only found out a few days ago,” Matthew explained.

At the same time, Marianne and Alice exclaimed, “How could you not tell us?!” Marianne was staring at Alfred while Alice glared at Matthew and Gilbert.

Hands moving in a “calm down” gesture, Matthew responded, “She wants to tell everyone at the Ostara circle, when she should start showing. She’s worried saying anything before then will invite bad luck, so please don’t say anything.”

Practically bouncing in her seat, Marianne made a zipping gesture over her lips before clapping, and Alice got a huge smile on her face as she pulled her wife back, so she leaned against her.

“I love you so much,” Alice breathed, and Gilbert smiled before nudging Matthew, who was smiling again, too.

“Any tips on how to keep this from my nosy girlfriend, who knows I’m lying before even I do?” Mathias asked, and Alfred laughed.

“It should be fine if you tell her,” Gilbert replied. “But the more important question is ‘When are you upgrading her to fiancée?’”

“‘Upgrade,’” Alice muttered, and Marianne shushed her. “She’s a person, not a computer.”

“Watch her do math sometime,” Alfred said. “You’ll take that back.”

At the same time, Marianne whispered, “Keep it at work, darling. We’re having a nice moment.”

Mathias pulled out his phone, and Matthew grinned as Mathias brought up the picture of the ring on his phone. Marianne gasped as she sat up, and Alice said the ring was beautiful.

“Valentine’s Day,” Mathias responded. “I already have everything planned, but I need lots of rose petals. Do you know where I can get a bunch of roses without breaking my wallet too bad?”

Alice smiled and nodded. “I know someone. Just tell me how many you need sweetie.” She pulled Marianne back to kiss her on the temple. “This is the year of love. I can feel it.”


	24. Morning People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death mentioned near end of chapter. Anya takes Ivan to see his father's grave. Eating disorders is mentioned close to the beginning of the chapter in the narration, when Ivan notices Natalya mostly just pushing her food around.

_ “There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.” ~ Lord Byron _

One thing Ivan prayed for was that he would never be expected to lead the family prayer. God wasn’t needed to fulfill this wish, though. Viktor’s pride was enough to make it reality.

Nicholas had never been talkative, and Thieving Bitch was usually on her phone or reading during dinner when she wasn’t prodding Ivan about acting or modeling opportunities. She’d been smarter than to talk about Kateryna’s weight in front of Nicholas, and she’d always used roundabout ways, so the few times Kateryna aired her grievances, Nicholas thought she was being too sensitive.

Okay, he hadn’t been perfect, but he’d been Ivan’s dad. And a goddamned saint compared to Viktor.

“Going well,” Ivan replied when his step-dad asked about classes today. “They’re moving fast, but I’m used to that, and my workload isn’t too much to keep me from getting a job. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Anya brightened and looked to Viktor before saying anything. When he nodded in approval, she faced Ivan and said, “That sounds like a wonderful idea. Would you like any help?”

 _Not really._ “It’d be nice to know any places that are hiring. I don’t think I can be picky, but…”

He allowed himself to trail off, and by the looks on Anya’s and Viktor’s faces showed they’d filled in the rest themselves as he’d intended.

Natalya moved the peas around her plate with her fork and glanced up. When she noticed Ivan looking at her still-full plate, she stabbed a couple peas and popped them into her mouth, chewing slowly.

She never ate much at dinner. Ivan hadn’t noticed at first, believing her stories about always eating big lunches at school and snacks her friend, Lilli, provided during afternoon break, but now he wondered.

Kateryna had EDNOS in high school and part of college, and she still struggled to eat healthily.

But Ivan wasn’t sure if he should bring eating disorders up to Natalya. She could be telling the truth, or she could just have no appetite due to stress. And how would she react to him bringing it up? It wasn’t like he’d gotten practice talking to Kateryna. He only heard about the EDNOS through Manon.

He was the worst brother.

Viktor’s voice broke through his thoughts before they could spiral deeper: “Understandable. The first place that comes to mind other than places like bars”—his lips twisted around the word—“or casinos—though I take it you may not wish to commute to Gulfport or Biloxi—is that coffeehouse behind that devil’s shop.”

Anya nodded as she tucked some of her silvery-blond hair behind one ear. Her hair fell just above her sloped shoulders in a bob with straight-across bangs that didn’t help compliment her long, angular face. Her eyes were light blue, like Natalya’s rather than Ivan’s indigo ones.

Viktor was the outsider with his greying brunette hair, slicked back to show a widow’s peak, and golden-brown eyes that burned when met in a direct gaze. He was a few inches shorter than Ivan but felt bigger, similar to how Manon seemed to fill a room, but his air was colder, more severe, and made Ivan feel as though each movement he made was being scrutinized and judged.

“The owner,” Viktor continued, “is an idolterer and speaks to demons.”

While Ivan first leaned into skepticism, after meeting Alfred, he knew that there were people that at least believed they were talking to demons. He remembered seeing a fallen angels-themed oracle deck at the pagan shop, but he also remembered seeing a crucifix and saint medallion around Feliciano’s neck. Odds were that he was Catholic, which explained the ‘idolterer’ comment. ‘Speaks to demons’ was new, though, but Ivan wasn’t going to press.

“That’s good to keep in mind,” he said instead after a bite of baked chicken. “I can start looking tomorrow.” It would take time away from working on his blog post, but he had until Sunday night. That should be plenty of time.

“I have errands to run tomorrow,” Anya said, smiling brightly at Ivan before looking to Viktor. “I could help suggest places while getting everything done.”

Viktor nodded. “That’s a wonderful idea.” He looked at Ivan. “I would be happy to help as well, but I’m needed to help those hoping to be Baptized next week.”

“That’s important work,” Ivan said, hoping it wasn’t too quickly. He wasn’t too thrilled to spend the whole day with his mom, but she was the lesser of two evils. “Mom and I will be fine together.” He looked at Natalya, but she shook her head before he could say anything.

“I’m supposed to meet Lilli at the library tomorrow to work on our government project. Dad’s going to drop me off on his way to the office.”

Viktor smiled proudly at Natalya, who returned the smile. It looked like genuine love.

It was hard to remember their relationship despite them living in the same house. While Ivan was able to keep distance between himself and Viktor to see him as the villain, it couldn’t be that simple for Natalya. Even if Viktor was who he was, he’d still been the one to check on Natalya during the night and the one to kiss her scraped knees and palms.

“I’m so proud of you,” Viktor told her, eyes softening to where it was easier to believe that he was a human being capable of love and compassion. He turned to Ivan to explain. “Lilli is a friend of Natalya’s. She was born in a Godless home, but through example, Natalya showed her the light of Grace. She usually attends Brother Dunant’s church, as it’s closer to her home.” He turned back to Natalya. “What are you two working on?”

Natalya took a sip of water and said they were supposed to start learning about lobbyists, so groups of two got to choose groups to research and talk about in class. She and Lilli had chosen the American Center for Law and Justice, a right-leaning group that had risen to counter the ACLU. Viktor and Anya congratulated Natalya on the choice and wished her and Lilli luck with their studies.

The rest of dinner was filled with Viktor talking about his first job as a teenager, a server at an ice cream parlor that used to be in the square by HU; Anya also filled space talking about some of her old teachers. She and Viktor also traded stories about meeting in college.

Then, it was time for bed, and Ivan let Natalya take the bathroom first, since he needed to check Blackboard and see what topics for Mark were already taken. He also needed to revise his short story by Tuesday, but that wouldn’t take as long. His group’s main complaints had pertained to his too-long sentences, his overuse of adverbs, and Hedvika had requested he kill the words “seeming” and “seemingly” with fire. Julchen had written the same thing, though more kindly, and she’d written in parenthesis that he better listen when she agreed with Hedvika.

 _There’s also psych_ , Ivan reminded himself as he logged into his account. Failing one quiz might not be terrible, especially if Dr. Djimou was nice enough to drop the lowest grade at the end of the semester, but he was going to get his ass in gear and do the readings. It was too easy for bad grades to catch up; he’d learned that the hard way and had barely passed trigonometry by the skin of his teeth.

And speaking of math…

Statistics was supposed to be easy. So easy, Eduard said it barely counted as math— _“It’s just a course people take to get their credit and move on. Like taking gender studies for your English credit.”_

Which was what Eduard had done, since he analyzed literature with the fervor and scrutiny of one of Viktor’s flock would towards a _Harry Potter_ book.

But Dr. Honda had either forgotten that statistics was supposed to be easy, or he’d taken that as a challenge.

The fact that the faculty scholarship covered five classes per semester might just be more curse than blessing….

Combing his hair back from his face, Ivan inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

“One thing at a time,” he murmured as he heard Natalya singing in the shower.

She was pitchy in some places, but overall, she had a good voice. She sounded more alive singing, and her voice was clearer than when she spoke. It sounded like something by Hillsong Worship or Casting Crowns, both of which Ivan usually heard playing from her room as she studied.

The list on Dr. Adebayo’s Blackboard showed Ivan wasn’t the only one struggling with a topic for the book of Mark, but it was hard to figure out what else could be talked about. He ended up just looking up (using the Onion browser) symbolism in Mark and settled on the first thing that caught his eye, the destruction of Jerusalem. Amazingly, this wasn’t on the list, so Ivan quickly e-mailed Dr. Adebayo.

In case someone else had sent an email minutes earlier claiming the same thing, Ivan put off starting his blog post and instead took out his physical psychology textbook. The desk, situated between the window and shallow closet, was too small for both the book and laptop, so Ivan set the laptop on his bed—which was too short for him, but Anya and Viktor kept promising a larger one soon—and went back to the high-backed chair.

Armed with highlighters and a pen, he tackled the chapter he should have read before yesterday, seeing already what he’d missed but seeing that it was mostly overview of psych 101 as he’d figured. He already knew about Phineas Gage, who was probably mentioned in every psychology textbook since 1860.

Chapter two dove into chemicals, inhibitors, pattern sequences, and sensory thresholds.

Already, the class was sounding more like chemistry than psychology.

“I should have signed up for theories of personality…,” Ivan muttered.

After a few paragraphs, Ivan took a break to check his email. Dr. Adebayo had already responded, giving him the thumbs-up for his topic and reminding him of the word count and to post 11:59 Sunday night at the latest.

One piece of stress out of the way. Good.

Sighing, he went back to his textbook, focusing more on what to highlight for future studying than what he was reading. Natalya interrupted after a while to let him know the bathroom was free, so Ivan took the welcome break, needing to feel hot water running over him for a while. Maybe he’d think better afterwards.

After reading through half the chapter and doing the homework for Dr. Honda’s class, Ivan finally set up his blog, playing around with fonts and page layout rather than starting on his first post.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thought, feeling exhausted, though it was barely past midnight. _I shouldn’t be falling asleep when asking for job interviews anyway_.

Hopefully everyone wouldn’t just tell him to look online, like back home when Nicholas insisted on taking Ivan around to help him “hit the streets and demand a job.” It had taken a great deal of self-discipline not to say “told you so” when Ivan finally got his first job after applying by himself, online.

Tears hit Ivan’s pillow as he drifted off to sleep.

He woke up to light humming rather than the harsh ringtone that was already starting to make him feel homicidal whenever he heard it.

“Remind me to find new blinds and curtains,” Anya said as Ivan grunted.

He grumbled gibberish, too tired to say real words, and Anya took it as affirmation.

“Viktor says only girls would care about such things, but a nice set of blinds and curtains can really help a room. Plus, this window faces east. Anyway, we better get an early start. Breakfast will be ready downstairs shortly.”

She left before Ivan could say that he didn’t care about curtains and could sleep through the sun exploding.

Ivan contemplated letting himself drop back into unconsciousness for a few moments but before he could shut his eyes and give in, he realized he was shivering. It was then he felt the cold, even as he tried to curl up more tightly under his covers.

 _God-fucking-dammit…,_ Ivan thought, grinding his teeth to keep the words from slipping out.

More cold sliced through him as he threw the blankets up and got up to slam his window shut. Anya must have opened it, knowing that her cold-hating son would rush out of bed to keep out the wind, sooner or later.

Maybe she was more wily than spineless; Anya might be the next person to show a surprising side of her to him.

That thought brought Eva back to mind, and Ivan sighed. He didn’t have her number, so he couldn’t text her to ask how she was doing. He didn’t have anyone’s number, actually. He’d talked to more people than he’d expected, feeling close enough to start calling them friends, but were they really?

As if on cue, Ivan’s phone dinged its default text tone setting, and he remembered the group text from American literature.

With Alfred.

Heat rose to Ivan’s face as he went to check his cellphone just as a new text came in: _NEW RULE: NO TEXTS BEFORE 10 UNLESS ONE OF YOU JUST DIED._

Kuro.

The first text had been from Alfred: _Is this afternoon or tomorrow afternoon better for meeting?_

A moment later, Alfred texted again: _Ok fine sorry. Sheesh. The message was followed by an emoji rolling its eyes._

“If he’s a morning person, then it most definitely wouldn’t work between us,” Ivan murmured, unplugging his phone and dropping it onto his bed.

After stretching, getting dressed, and combing his hair, Ivan joined his mom for breakfast, nearly choking on his oatmeal when he saw that it was just past seven—a lot of places wouldn’t even be open for an hour, at least.

“Your sister and step-father are night owls,” Anya mused as she sipped a cup of herbal tea. “Nicholas was too.” Her smile turned wistful, and the brown sugar-laden oatmeal turned sour in Ivan’s mouth. “I remember him calling me or his friend Gil over to run lines with him at midnight. Sent my mother in a tizzy the one time she intercepted one of those calls.”

Eyes downcast, Ivan nodded but said nothing as he chewed. His dad had done that with him sometimes, or he’d asked Kateryna or Thieving Bitch for help.

They didn’t say anything more to each other, which Ivan was thankful for, but the next thing he knew, they were parked in front of a church. A Baptist church.

“Mom—”

“Have you been here?” she asked him as she killed the engine. Her smile was gone, and while no tears had fallen that Ivan had seen, her eyes were red-rimmed. “At all?”

Lips pressed together, Anya nodded after a minute of silence. “Come on.”

Anya unbuckled herself and moved to open her door when Ivan suddenly asked, “Why are you doing this?”

Hand still on the handle and eyes downcast, Anya whispered, “This wasn’t your fault.”

Ivan froze, eyes burning and hands curled into fists in his lap.

“It’s not Kateryna’s fault either.”

“A—Mom—”

“I know about Louis.”

Ivan’s heart stopped. His spirit was expelled from his body. He watched from above as this scene unfolded.

Blinking quickly, Anya kept going, voice cracking. “I’m… I can’t… That sort of… Th-that’s not a topic for today.” She cleared her throat. “It’s un… unimportant. Compared to Nicholas and what you’ve been put through.”

Ivan couldn’t speak. His tongue was cold lead in his mouth. His windpipe was clutched shut by a skeletal hand he couldn’t shake, and his fists trembled in his lap.

Finally looking at her son, Anya assured, “I’m not telling Viktor. I know how he is. He doesn’t need to know.”

Air expelled from Ivan’s lungs, and he slumped as he was slammed back into his body and struggled to breathe. Tears burned trails down his cheeks, and he didn’t have the strength or will to push Anya away when she pulled him to her in an awkward embrace. 

“Your father never believed in an afterlife,” Anya whispered. “I found his outlook… sad. Almost worse than Hell. At least there, you still exist.”

 _Tortured for eternity by a so-called merciful god. Yeah. So much better._ Ivan didn’t say that, though. He struggled to do anything except breathe.

“It’ll be good for you to talk to him.” Anya pulled away to meet Ivan’s eyes, but he stared at the gear shift. “Tell him about Louis, about college, about meeting Natalya. Anything. Just talk. Nicholas was so much better than most men I’ve known. He actually wanted to know about my day.” A small chuckle broke through the building sob. “About my dreams, though he teased me for having such small ones. He still wants to listen, I can promise you that.”

Though he tried, Ivan couldn’t stop his lips from curving into the barest of smiles.

He didn’t believe in an afterlife, either, but he could see the comfort in the thought.

Finally, Ivan nodded, and he unbuckled himself and opened the car door.

Anya stopped at the oak and urged Ivan to keep going. The wind had died down, and Ivan shivered more out of nervousness.

“I’ll give you space,” Anya told him. “I don’t want you to think you have to keep anything back because I’m listening.”

Nodding, Ivan tried for a smile before turning back around. _You already know a lot more than I thought you did._

How did she even find out about Louis? His parents? Brother?

Nicholas’s grave was towards the right side of the cemetery, past the podium that had a different Psalm etched into each side. There were fake flowers and a Ukrainian flag in the metal vase attached to the gravestone. 

_Nicholas Artem Braginsky_ _  
_ _May 24, 1979 – November 24, 2017_ _  
_ _Loving father, brother, and husband_ _  
_ _“Reaching for the stars doesn’t mean sacrificing love._   
Only with love can you even fly.” ~ Star Maid 2007

That had been Nicholas’s favorite movie he’d acted in, even if the critics hadn’t felt even half the love he had. Ivan used to find the story cliché: Girl has a dream; girl meets boy (Nicholas); girl has to choose between dream and boy; girl chooses dream but is lonely at the top; girl goes back to boy; girl and boy create a new dream they are happy doing together.

He still found it cliché, but he heard his dad in that quote, even if it hadn’t been his character that said it.

Nicholas had dreamed of making it big as an actor, but he’d gotten saddled with Ivan and Kateryna. Kids made working around schedules hard, but Nicholas had made it work, even if it had meant making compromises.

“Hi, Dad.” Ivan swallowed audibly, staring at the foam lilies in the metal vase. “It’s… it’s been a while, huh? We… we used—” He cleared his throat and squatted down, so he was looking at the gravestone straight-on. “We used to talk every night. You told me you didn’t trust Louis. Said he was bad news.” He blinked hard. “You… were right. And now you’re both gone. Y-you are, anyway. Louis… he’s hanging on. Last I heard.”

Eyes going to the grass, Ivan let tears roll down his cheeks.

“I…” He swallowed. “I don’t want to talk about that, though. Um… Natalya’s nice. In her way. She’s taking a while to open up. I… I guess I understand, where she’s growing up. I think she’d like LA. God knows there’s plenty more people she could talk to there than here. Lilli is her only friend I’ve heard about her having.” He swallowed again. “Kateryna’s applying to jobs here, since she’s not sure how long we’ll be here, and you knew about how the ‘adpocolypse’ had hit Manon’s channel pretty hard last year. She’s still doing good, though… Kat… She still has nightmares. I do… t-too… sometimes. Or I don’t dream at all. It feels like she was hit harder… I… maybe I just don’t want to feel anymore.”

Tears streamed down his face, now, and it was hard to keep his voice even.

“Sometimes I don’t know which is worse. The pain… or feeling nothing at all.” His voice was soft, cracking every few words. “And now I’m here. Talking to granite and plastic. Anya.” He paused. “ _Mom_ said it would be good for me. I… She means well. You-you didn’t say bad things about her.” A chuckle slipped through, and he looked up at the grey sky as the wind started to pick up again. “And you had plenty of chances.”

Other words fell from Ivan’s mind as he shivered. He didn’t have the strength to get up just yet, but he also couldn’t think of anything to say. So he just sat, watched the gravestone, and pretended his dad was listening. Maybe if he concentrated, he’d hear him, hear his brain conjure his voice to bring him advice Nicholas would give if he were here.

But he heard nothing but wind kicking fallen leaves, and with a sigh, Ivan finally rose to his feet as his knees knocked.

“I… I should go. I need to find a job here. Thieving Bi—your wife left me with nothing. You always trusted people too much. So did I. I’ll try not to make the same mistake twice. I’m just sorry”—a sob escaped—“so sorry that I made that mistake the first time.”


	25. Peppermint Milkshakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue shows Elfie and Anya are talking about Nicholas's and Gilbert's parents reacting to their shenanigans when they were teens could be exaggeration, but abuse warning just in case.
> 
> Wilhelm = 2p!Prussia

_ “If we pursue a spiritual path in depth, then it changes who and what we are. There is no turning back. We can only move forward.” ~ Vivianne Crowley _

“‘Spoken Word Slices and Shakes,’” Ivan read as Anya parked the car in front of the pizzeria. The paint on the window was chipping, but the inside looked nice, if empty. It was still early to be searching for jobs anywhere open during human hours, but Anya insisted.

They’d been at the cemetery longer than Ivan had thought, especially when Anya tried needling him for information before finally giving up. She’d assured him again his secret about Louis was safe from Viktor. Ivan had thanked her, and she’d hugged him longer than he’d intended when initiating the embrace.

Maybe her love wasn’t the performance. Maybe she actually toned down her affection for her out-of-wedlock son in front of Viktor, though Ivan couldn’t really think of how that made sense. Unless Anya just automatically felt the need to tiptoe around her husband, like how she’d look to him for permission before speaking in public or even at dinner.

 _Why not just leave him?_ Ivan thought as he and Anya got out of the car, but then he remembered that she didn’t have a job. There was also Natalya, but Natalya would be eighteen soon.

Anya had a sister, didn’t she? If Anya left, wouldn’t she help?

Ivan remembered Anya mentioning to Viktor a few days before Christmas that Sofia and her parents couldn’t make it this year. It had sounded like an on-going thing based on Viktor’s followed muttering, but he hadn’t said anything about his family, either. So, it had just been the four of them.

“Their gimmick,” Anya said about the restaurant as she adjusted her dusty pink scarf. “They hold poetry readings every Saturday. You’re studying English. That sound like something you’d like to do?”

Ivan didn’t want to smile but did anyway. His mom was trying.

Anya cleared her throat, and Ivan blushed as he opened the door for his mom. It wasn’t that he’d never done it before; she’d simply reached it first.

Nodding in thanks, Anya continued in a lower voice. “The thin crust is always burnt, and the Chicago style is always still a bit doughy—and still somehow burnt at the same time—but the normal thickness is fine, as long as you stay away from the mushrooms. She boils them to mush, I swear.”

Taking off his gloves and loosening his scarf, Ivan said, “Someone at school suggested the peppermint shake.”

Brightening, Anya nodded. “Those have been my favorite since I was a girl. Elfriede doesn’t make them quite as good as her grandmother—”

Right then, a woman pushed past the swinging door leading into the kitchen. “Anya Marina Sokolov—”

“Arlovsky, Elfie. For near eighteen years now—”

“—how dare you doubt my skills!” She stopped by a circular table in front of Anya and Ivan, cocking a hip and placing her fists on her waist. Silver spun through her auburn hair, which was tied back in a long braid, and slipping down her ski-slope nose was a pair of light blue cat-eye glasses. “And I heard what you said about my mushrooms! At least unlike you, I don’t take mine dried and down by—”

“Elfie, I would like you to meet my son, Ivan,” Anya pushed him roughly between her and the shorter woman, face bright red and eyes cast down in embarrassment.

 _My mom used to trip on ‘shrooms. Why not._ Ivan tried for a smile and tried to pretend he didn’t understand what Elfriede had been alluding to.

By her smirk as she glanced from Anya up to Ivan’s eyes, though, she knew he knew—and was enjoying his mother’s shame.

Sticking a hand out, Elfriede cocked her head, one of her too-thin eyebrows quirking upwards as Ivan shook her hand.

“Up your daddy one side and down the other,” she commented, shaking her head.

 _What_. “Um—?”

“Better’n being like your momma,” she continued, either oblivious to Ivan’s confusion or enjoying it. “She ever tell you she never sent a thank you note for those wedding gifts I sent? Like her momma and daddy raised her in a damn barn. Even Sofia sent me one for hers.”

Anya blinked, looking surprised. Did she not know her sister was married? “Elfie—”

“And confidence can be built.” Elfriede turned and motioned for the two to follow her to the booth closest to the swinging door. “Calluses too. Your hand feels like a darned marshmallow.”

It was Ivan’s turn to redden as Anya sighed, murmuring that they should have visited elsewhere for an application.

“Application?” Elfriede snapped and pointed at the seat, and the other two followed the order. “And here I thought y’all were just here to keep me company for breakfast. Since y’all were too busy to pay me and Wilhelm a visit on Christmas.” She headed into the kitchen as she kept talking. “Well, at least you got your prodigal son. My little girl, bless her heart, is too busy for her momma even when she’s livin’ at my home, eatin’ my food, havin’ me pay her bills. Busy with that two-timin’ boy, but am I allowed to call him that without that girl callin’ me racist? Who that girl thinks she is—”

“How long have you known her?” Ivan whispered, hoping Elfriede couldn’t hear. With the way she ranted, he half-expected to learn that her last name was Szenes.

“Too long,” Anya whispered back, sighing again. “She moved here from Florence, Alabama when we were in elementary school. She’s a couple years older, but her mouth got her in trouble, so teachers kept her held back outta spite, so she ended up in my grade despite her wit being whip-quick. Careful ‘round her. She’ll know your business before you do.”

Great. Another spy. And he still needed to find out which of the students at HU was the one from Viktor’s flock that made the Christian club.

“Her husband’s name is Wilhelm, and he’s the senior pastor at the Lutheran church up the road from the Baptist one we just left,” Anya continued. Elfriede was still ranting about her daughter’s boyfriend in the kitchen. “Well, was. He fell outta a deer stand during a hunting trip three years ago, bless his heart, and his gun went off, taking off his right foot and putting him in the hospital for a good bit. Thank God James was with him. The boy comes off a bit rude, true, but he’s cool as a cucumber in times of need. You might know ‘im—James Williams. He’s an English professor and working on a doctorate, last I heard.” She took a napkin from the holder propping up the menus and dabbed at her eyes. “Anywho, Wilhelm decided to retire soon after. Works at a Christian bookstore in Gulfport now. Heard through Ona that he’s been taking online classes to be a head-shrinker.” She shook her head, voice even lower. “Not sure what the internet can teach him about helping people the Bible hasn’t.”

It looked like she was about to say more when Elfriede returned, sounding like she hadn’t bothered to pause to inhale since she left. “—spoiled her too much, but one day, she’ll get her head and that stick outta her tight little ass and learn.”

“Elfie!” Anya gasped, and the other woman rolled her eyes as she set two tall, ornate glasses on the table.

“Ass, cock, fuck, shit,” she volleyed, cackling when Anya sputtered. “Less and less like the girl with an axe to grind every day.”

She was still smiling, but there was a flash of sadness in her eyes.

“Elfie—”

“Anyhow, here’s two peppermint shakes, on the house, just to prove your momma wrong.” Elfriede sat across from them and waited as they took sips from the white-and-red-striped straws.

There were peppermint and chocolate shavings sprinkling the whipped cream, and white chocolate sauce decorated the inside of the glass. It tasted amazing, and Elfriede’s russet eyes danced as he grinned.

“I don’t mind being proven wrong when it’s your recipes,” Anya complimented as she tucked some hair behind one ear.

“Mmhmm. Or maybe you know which buttons to push to get you free shakes.”

“There is always that.”

Rolling her eyes again, Elfriede crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back. “Well, Nicholas Junior, so long as you don’t set my curtains on fire, you got the job.”

Ivan blinked, and he turned to Anya. “How many curtains has Dad set on fire when he lived here?”

Anya failed to stifle a giggle as Elfriede barked in laughter.

“Just Karpusi’s—well, Adnan’s now—curtains during her poetry circle. She was still stuck in the sixties, despite only being knee-high to a grasshopper back then, and she tried holding poetry circles after school in her home for the more ‘at-risk’ kids—your momma, daddy, and I were all in that group. She’d try having us talk about our feelings in a ‘creative way,’ and your dad was keeping a lighter up his sleeve to set the paper he’d written his poem on for whatever drama he wanted to pull that night. King of drama, your daddy.”

He and Anya laughed, and Ivan couldn’t help but smile. That sounded like something his dad would do.

“You’re forgetting the fireworks,” Anya managed through giggles. “With Gilbert and Tadas?”

Elfriede clapped and sat up straight, eyes lighting up. “Oh, how could I ever forget that?!”

The two managed to take turns telling Ivan the story: Nicholas, with Gilbert Beilschmidt and Tadas Laurinaitis by his side, took a box of Roman candles and a launching gun Tadas had made.

The field was in the northeastern part of town, though that field was woods now. The three boys, in eighth grade at the time, went there to play with the box of Roman candles Gilbert had gotten from an upperclassmen. They used Tadas’s launching gun to set fire to dummies they’d set up in the distance, when the chief of police arrived.

When the chief called out to them, Nicholas whirled around and dropped the launching gun. The lit roman candle thankfully missed the chief, but it flew close enough to set his coat on fire. His coat must have been flammable to go up so quickly, and while he did the stop, drop, and roll routine, the soil and grass thankfully wet from a recent storm, the boys ran over and dumped their cokes all over the chief, trying to put out the fire themselves.

“The way Nicholas told it,” Anya laughed, “he woulda rather slept in the jail cell than have his daddy pick him up. He couldn’t sit for a week after that night.”

Lifting her glasses to rub her eyes, Elfriede nodded as she snorted and laughed. “Gilbert walked bow-legged the next day, bless his heart. His momma really tanned his hide for stealing money from her for those Roman candles. On top of getting his friends to set them off with him.”

Ivan’s laugh faltered at the mention of Nicholas's dad, but he tried not to let it show. Growing up fearing his father’s hand more than jail probably explained why Nicholas had been so against physical punishment with him, despite getting lectures from “well-meaning” neighbors saying Ivan was going to grow up spoiled otherwise.

When Ivan had brought his first boyfriend home, kissing him in front of the apartment before they walked in hand in hand, he heard the old lady that lived across from them say, “That’s what happens with kids that don’t get disciplined” as she shook her head sadly.

Did Anya think the same way?

She’d kept wanting to say more about Louis and “that kind” of relationship, but she’d bitten her tongue each time. Ivan hoped she continued to do so.

Once the laughter finally started dying down, Elfriede had Ivan write down his class schedule and contact information on the notepad in her apron pocket.

The door opened in the back as he did so, a voice calling out, “I’m here, Empress!”

Elfriede smiled at Anya’s raised eyebrows.

“I’m out front, Blanche!” Elfriede called back. “Get out here and say ‘hi’ to your new co-worker as of…” She took the notepad from Ivan when he held it out to her and adjusted her glasses. “Monday right after lunch rush! Hmm. Tuesdays and Thursdays may be harder to work around, but that’s fine. Not like you’re gonna be full-time anyway. Can’t afford that.” She barked a laugh. “And those days tend to be slower, anyway. Saturdays are always when we’re packed to the gills.”

A tall girl who must be Blanche walked out from the kitchen, tying an apron around her waist. “Much as it rankles Fire Chief Kamau. He’s had to give us a warning a few times. Anyway, hi, I’m Blanche Mekinda.”

She shook Anya’s hand first, since she was closer, and Anya nodded politely as she introduced herself. At the mention of her last name, though, Blanche’s smile suddenly turned forced, crinkles forming at the corners of her large, doe-like eyes.

Viktor’s reputation preceded him. Great.

“I’m Ivan Braginsky,” he said as he took Blanche’s hand next. Her smile wobbled again, and she let go abruptly, making him feel awkward. “D-do you go to HU?”

Nodding, Blanche put her hands into the large pockets of her apron, and Ivan heard faint clicking. It sounded like the buttons on the fidget cube Krisjanis always had with him.

“I’m an English lit major,” she offered.

Ivan could have figured that. Under her unbuttoned flannel shirt was a grey blouse with white lettering that said, _I’m an English major—_ _you_ _do the math_.

Her tattoo choker was colored like a pansexual flag, and her ebony hair was cropped close to the scalp with a lotus design shaved on the left side. A dime-sized disk with a spiral etched into it hung from the choker, she sported purple-blue lipstick and silver eyeliner. Anya’s eyes kept rising to the lotus shape in Blanche’s hair, and the clicking sound grew faster and a little louder.

“It’s good meeting you,” Ivan tried, hoping Elfriede wasn’t about to change her mind about hiring him.

She seemed oblivious to Blanche’s unease, though, and she knew Anya was married to Viktor, despite having used Anya’s maiden name earlier.

“Go ahead and start making sure the ovens are prepped,” Elfriede told Blanche. “We have a birthday party at noon.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Blanche nodded quickly and smiled at Ivan and Anya, looking between them to avoid meeting either of their eyes. “I look forward to working with you. Have a good day!”

She hurried back to the kitchen, and Elfriede said, “She can be real shy, but she’s fast and thorough when cleaning, and she’s great with kids. Prefers the company of animals to people, though. I’ve been subtly hinting—shush, Anya, I can be plenty fucking subtle—that she switch to a science major and become a vet instead.” She shrugged. “But things’ll work out for her whatever way she goes, I’m sure. The other worker is Yang. She’ll be in later this afternoon. She’s a bit feisty, but don’t let her bark scare you away. She’s also the senior of the two, so she’ll be training you when you get here. I’ll text you tomorrow your schedule.”

Smiling but trying not to seem too excited, Ivan said, “Thank you, ma’am—”

“Empress is fine,” she replied, grinning. She turned to Anya. “I like your boy so far, Blondie. Sure you’re fine with me corrupting him?”

Anya’s smiling turning strained, she chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure everything’ll be right as rain.”

“Mmhmm.” Elfriede got up and took the now-empty glasses. “We’ll see. Now, go ahead and skedaddle. I was serious about that party, and I’m gonna need a fifth of vodka before those rugrats get here. I still got your favorite brand if you ever change your mind about your life choices, Anya!”

Cheeks flushed, Anya cleared her throat and got up. “Thank you, Elfie, I’m fine. And thank you for this.”

“Anything for yours and Nicholas’s boy.” Elfriede met Ivan’s eye before turning to go into the kitchen. “Even just seeing that face makes me feel young again.”

“C’mon, Ivan,” Anya whispered, voice flat, and Ivan called another thank-you to Elfriede followed by saying he looked forward to Monday.

When they were in the car, Anya sighed heavily before sticking the key into the ignition and turning on the heat. She didn’t put the car in reverse, though; she just stared at the wheel.

“You okay, Mom?” Ivan asked as he buckled himself into the passenger seat.

Trying for a smile but still staring at the wheel, Anya nodded. “I’m okay, sweetheart. I sometimes just forget that Elfie is… _Elfie_. She enjoys getting under people’s skin. That’s probably why Artemisia rebels so much, but you didn’t hear that from me.” She chuckled, but it fell flat. “And she knows what gets under my skin most is how I was when we were teenagers. Somehow, she seems to think I was a better person then, but all that… there was no God in my choices back then.” She finally looked at Ivan and patted his knee. “But we all make mistakes. It’s just up to us to admit such and strive to be better.”

He had a feeling she wasn’t only talking about herself anymore, but Ivan did his best to smile. “Yeah, that’s right, Mom.”


	26. The Young and the Oblivious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mentions of pedophilia, incest, and racism when the group talks about Poe.
> 
> Carrie = nyo!Hong Kong

_ “To judge darkness as bad or wrong is akin to judging whether up is better than down, or whether blue is better than red.” ~ Timothy Roderick _

“Kuro’s just salty about you waking him up,” Linnea muttered as she rolled her eyes.

She was in front of Alfred in line at Feliciano’s coffeehouse, digging out one of the Visa giftcards she always got for Christmas and birthdays—her obsessions changed too quickly for anyone in her family to keep up with her interests. Money was the safer bet for her gift-wise. Alfred usually defaulted to book store gift cards as well; her library was too extensive for him to safely guess what she hadn’t already read.

Alfred sighed as he fiddled with his anti-possession pentacle-covered wallet. “He should keep it on silent when he’s asleep if he doesn’t want to be woken up.”

“And risk missing a text from Artemisia?” Linnea snorted.

“Alright, good point.”

“Gingerbread?” Tadas asked as Linnea stepped up to the register. “Or are you wanting a chili-cinnamon mocha to mix it up a little?”

“Second, please.” Linnea smiled and pointed at the bake case. “And one of the raspberry éclairs. The almond-covered one, so a certain mooch won’t steal it.” She turned around to respond to Alfred sticking his tongue out at her by pulling down her eyelid. “Neh-neh.”

Chuckling, Tadas punched in her order and went to grab the éclair. “Gilbert has been a poor influence on him as of late. Maybe I should put real arsenic in his lattes. So, what are y’all doing here today?” He stuck the éclair into the small oven on the chrome counter behind him.

“Gilbert asked us to spy on you,” Alfred said before Linnea could respond. “He thinks you’ll lead us to the treasure you hid with Mrs. Elfie.”

Shaking his head, Tadas punched in Linnea’s order. “Feliks will use the Lord’s name in vain before Gilbert figures out how to find it.”

“Is the treasure at least valuable like that one _Buzzfeed Unsolved_ did an episode on?” Alfred fished, handing over a ten-dollar bill after Linnea stepped aside.

Already knowing Alfred’s order, Toris took the bill and grabbed the largest size of the mugs when the oven’s timer went off. “You’ll have to find it to find out.” He set the mug aside and grabbed a small plate for Linnea’s éclair.

“Pretty sure it’s not millions of dollars in gold, coins, and gems,” Linnea commented, a smirk playing on her thin lips as she took the plate and cheap fork. “Granny Lehner’s special pizza crust recipe maybe, in which case, we should return that to Mrs. Elfie.”

“Just knowing the recipe won’t be enough to make her not burn everything she touches,” Alfred chuckled, and Tadas snorted as he relayed the orders to a girl coming out from the kitchen with two milk jugs.

Alfred didn’t recognize her, but her name tag said _Carrie_ with _Barista_ underneath.

Tadas walked her through the making of the drinks in-between taking orders of people coming up behind Alfred and Linnea, and the two decided to wait by the bar, out of the way. Carrie’s lips were rolled inward in concentration as she worked slowly but diligently, a few strands of her dark hair falling over her moon-like face.

“… read some of it!” Kuro laughed boisterously as he entered the coffeehouse, a blushing and frowning Ivan in tow.

Ivan said something Alfred couldn’t hear, but it made Kuro roll his eyes. When Kuro caught Alfred’s eye, though, he smirked, and Alfred quickly turned around, nearly knocking his mug over as Carrie set it onto the bar.

“I’m so sorry!” they exclaimed in unison, and Linnea sighed.

“It’s not your fault,” she told the new barista. “Dufus here is just letting one of our group members get under his skin, despite me warning him.” She sipped her coffee, some whipped cream ending up on the tip of her nose.

Alfred’s cheeks warmed as Carrie looked around him. “Oh. Him.” She sighed. “He’s friends with my cousin, Yang. Somehow. I think. They argue whenever they hang out, so I don’t know why they put up with each other.”

“Yang Ng?” asked Linnea after licking at the pile of whipped cream on her mocha, and she sighed when Carrie nodded with a puzzled look on her face. “I know her from my criminology class. Smart as hell, but she’s snotty and annoying about it.” Blush rose to her cheeks as she looked at the counter, mug over her mouth. “No offense.”

Carrie chuckled. “Trust me, I get it. I don’t have brothers or sisters, so my parents always used Yang and Clementina—Yang’s little sister—to compare me against.”

“I know the feeling,” Linnea and Alfred chorused, and Linnea glared at Alfred as she poked at her pastry with the fork.

“You _are_ the sibling the other gets compared to,” she said, and Tadas laughed, having overheard.

“Before y’all start arguing,” he said, Kuro and Ivan now at the counter, “I need to borrow my trainee. That okay with you?”

“Coming, Mr. Laurinaitis!” Carrie turned to return to his spot next to him, and Linnea called over to their group mates that they were going to go sit down.

“I got compared to Mattie growing up plenty,” Alfred muttered as he and Linnea headed towards the sitting area in the front corner. There was a small table with some chairs around it, and nearby was the bulletin board of flyers for stuff going on in the area, some for events that happened months ago.

“Mm-hmm. ” Linnea rolled her eyes. She set her coffee and plate onto the low table and knocked Kuro’s bag off a chair, so she could take it. She looked up when Kuro shouted at her from the line. “You get to live in a single. I share a room with Leonora freaking Bjarnesen. Let me have the good chair!”

Kuro threw his hands up but didn’t argue, and Alfred laughed as Ivan looked confused. Tadas just shook his head as he set two large mugs aside.

Leonora really wasn’t that bad in Alfred’s opinion. She was a freshman and a baby gay who could finally be herself without worry of her parents antagonizing her. She practically vomited rainbows, and she often came on too strong to others and was hypersensitive to comments. Pretty much any criticism towards her, no matter how miniscule, got thrown back with a cry of “You’re just homophobic!”

So when Leonora got paired with Linnea, who occasionally toed the line of “brutally honest,” it was a recipe for war. Linnea often commented that other girls on their floor were signing a petition to have either Leonora or Linnea transferred to a new dorm.

“Back to our earlier—”

Linnea held up a finger to cut Alfred off as she took a bite of her éclair. “Matthew’s, like, a _decade_ older than you. You didn’t even really have a sibling. You had a third parent. You never had to hear about how your grades aren’t as good, how you could have graduated earlier like they did, how—”

Alfred groaned, and Linnea paused, eyebrows rising.

“When people bring up stuff like that,” she said, “they’re comparing you to _you_ , not Matthew.”

Alfred broke eye contact, having no response. She was right.

Ivan and Kuro returned, Kuro having to slap a _The Watchtower_ pamphlet off the chair opposite of Alfred before sitting down.

“What the hell were you doing up at ass-crack of dawn anyway?” Kuro demanded as he grabbed his bag to keep it by his feet.

Rolling his eyes, Alfred set his latte down onto the table and responded, “We don’t all make a living marketing ourselves as children of the night.”

“Don’t you worship the moon?”

“And the sun; fuck off.”

“Or what? Zeus will smite me for you?”

“The Gods don’t need to step in and do something I’m capable of doing myself.”

“Right, cause Anton—”

Linnea clapped hard enough to turn her palms red, and the look on her face managed to silence Kuro. “Ursula will join us in a bit, so let’s get on-topic, yeah?”

Slowly, Alfred leaned back in his chair, not having realized he’d been leaning forward, hands grasping the arms until his knuckles turned white. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tadas cast him a look, but Alfred ignored him. He ignored Ivan’s look, too, unsure if it was concerned, confused, or condemning—when Alfred’s mood was stirred up like this, it was hard to read people.

At least Kuro looked away and sipped his coffee. That said he knew he’d been about to step out of bounds, even for him. He may be a troll, but he wasn’t normally cruel.

 _I won’t let Kuro under my skin, I said_ , Alfred thought, his inner voice using a mocking falsetto. He grabbed his mug when he was sure he could keep his hand still enough to not spill the contents. _If I can handle Roland, I can handle Kuro, I said. Gods dammit, I can barely handle Roland, and he goes easy on me._

After some minutes of awkward silence, Ursula stomped into the café, raising her hand briefly to say she saw them but offering no greetings. It sounded like there were clackers on the soles of her combat boots, and she’d doubled up on the flannel, a mostly-red shirt tied around her small waist and a mostly-blue one hanging haphazardly on her frame beneath her oversized bomber jacket. Again, she and Alfred were both sporting superhero T-shirts—hers, Scarlet Witch; his, Superman.

“Yo, Teach! Got any discounts for fellow noodle-fearing heathens?” Ursula called over to Tadas.

Carrie’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion, and Alfred noticed Ivan’s eyes widen before he quickly trained his face back to a neutral expression.

As Tadas opened his mouth for a retort, Feliciano called out from the back, “No discounts for heathens!”

“What about your girlfriend?” Tadas returned as Ursula reached the counter and dug out her wallet.

There was silence for a moment, and Carrie looked like she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to laugh or not.

Suddenly, Feliciano shouted, “Discount for _one_ heathen! All others pay extra! Especially if he’s albino and owns a demon parrot!”

Tadas, Alfred, and Linnea burst out into laughter, and Carrie handled getting Ursula’s order.

Feliciano was in a long-distance relationship with Ksenia Kozlova, who had recently immigrated to the US from Belarus and was studying at Yale. They’d met online, and Ksenia was apparently outspoken against the Orthodox church—and Christianity in general. She hadn’t been too pleased about Feliciano being Catholic, apparently, when he told her, but she’d calmed down about it over time. Alfred had only met her once, when she came to visit for a week last summer, before having to head back to Connecticut for work.

From what Alfred had been hearing from Tadas and his spouse, Ksenia hadn’t been able to handle Mississippi’s summer (or its overwhelmingly Christian majority) and had mostly been looking around New Haven, Connecticut; Ann Arbor, Michigan; San Francisco, California; and NYC, New York for prospective jobs once she graduated.

Tadas bet Gilbert one-hundred dollars Feliciano would pack his bags and a ring soon as Ksenia had a degree in her hands. Gilbert was sure that Feliciano wouldn’t want to leave the safety net of his brother and their grandfather.

Alfred didn’t know what Feliciano would pick. If he were in that position, he’d probably stay in Hetaville, even if it meant the end of his relationship. He couldn’t imagine leaving his parents, brothers, their covens, or his friends.

That thought reminded him, however, that Linnea might be moving after graduation, which was next year or sooner, if she could keep managing to juggle five to seven classes a semester. Mathias would follow her if she decided to return to Oklahoma or find home in another state altogether.

Michelle and Sakura had been discussing wanting to move to Oregon at some point in the near future, and if Lise got accepted by one of the Big Five orchestras (which was looking likelier by the semester), then there was a fifty-fifty chance of Julchen going with her. Imre would stay, since his dad relied on him, but he and Alfred weren’t very close.

Eva had wanderlust, always talking about all the places she wanted to see. She might not have any plans in place, but Alfred knew her itchy feet would carry her away sooner rather than later, and Roland would feel obligated to join her and make sure she had some form of a safety net wherever she went.

Ludwig had already left him, following his dream of studying to become a take-no-shit investigative journalist and leaving Hetaville in the dust.

Alfred would be far from left alone, but a lot was going to change in the coming years. He was going to have to give a lot of goodbyes and plaster on smile after smile as he did.

“… at least read it?” Kuro was asking as Ursula took the final chair, and Alfred snapped out of his thoughts.

Linnea and Ivan were both watching him, but he waived away their curious (in Ivan’s case) and worried (in Linnea’s case) glances.

Oblivious to them, Kuro continued, “Big Guy here didn’t even know Poe had even written mysteries before Wednesday.”

Red dusted Ivan’s cheeks as he looked away and sipped his coffee, whipped cream getting on his nose.

“Whatever.” Ursula licked her whipped cream, which had chocolate syrup swirling over it. “Most people don’t, and it’s not like we’re giving dissertations on it or some shit. Just a slideshow.”

When she stopped talking to sip the rest of her whipped cream, Linnea added, “We’ll mostly be using scholarly papers as sources, anyway. You should read the stories, though, since we’re all going to need to take turns talking in front of the class, and we’re supposed to each come up with questions for everyone else to answer. So Jones is sure everyone’s listening to everyone, I guess.” She looked over at Alfred as Ivan nodded. “You read it, too.”

“Why’d you assume I haven’t read it?”

Kuro cut in, “’Cause it’s not a picture book.” He grinned at Alfred’s one-finger salute.

“Pretty sure I’ve seen a graphic novel version,” Ursula threw out there, and Alfred’s resolve to keep hating her faltered a bit.

He just nodded, frowning when Kuro made a sound like a cross between a groan and sigh. He didn’t know Alfred was dyslexic, but it was doubtful that he would care either way. Whenever Alfred brought it up, it was all just “Try harder, then” or “Read more; you just need to practice.”

Or people just didn’t believe him, using his good grades as “proof” he couldn’t have trouble reading.

Ursula knew, from when she was dating Eva, and she was dyslexic, too. She understood better than most and knew that comics were just easier. The usual font in dialogue bubbles were harder for his brain to flip around, and the pictures provided good context and kept his attention better. He’d gotten to where he could read big novels if he really had to, but e-book versions were easier, since he could play around with the font size, style, and sometimes even the color.

Linnea, a “book purist” had trouble understanding when they first met. When he’d read that scene in _Goblet of Fire_ to her, he’d only been able to do so without trouble due to having read it—and the whole series—so often. That series was the first to get him to sit down and pour over the pages, so many times that he used to have entire chapters memorized.

“I remember people saying Sherlock’s writer was inspired by Poe’s story,” Alfred put in, trying to shoo his thoughts away again. This wasn’t the time to wallow; he refused to be dead weight in a group project. “I think that detective in _The Orient Express_ was inspired by it, too.”

“Arthur Conan Doyle—”

“Another Arthur that believes in fairies,” Kuro snickered.

Ivan looked confused again for a moment while Ursula rolled her eyes.

Linnea continued as though he hadn’t spoken: “—and Agatha Christie. Great starts, and info about them should be able to fill up two or three slides with that alone. Usually for pop culture references, though, they all just reference Sherlock. Poe’s only really known for his horror stuff.”

“And shaking up with his thirteen-year-old cousin,” Ursula muttered into her coffee.

Alfred grimaced into his coffee as Linnea and Ivan coughed. Kuro gagged.

“I’m guessing we’re going to ignore the debate,” Ursula continued after a sip of coffee, “about whether or not the orangutan in the story is an allegory to African Americans.”

Sitting up, Kuro questioned, “Fucking allegory to _what_?”

Cheeks red, Linnea nodded. “We’ll focus on just the detective-like character and his companion, and the use of deductive reasoning.”

After a moment of awkward silence, Ivan asked how they wanted to divide the workload. “I think instead of equal cuts, it should depend more on how much time everyone has.”

Kuro retorted, “But then Lin won’t be doing any work at all!”

“I already agreed to put everything together in a slideshow,” Linnea pointed out after finishing her éclair. “I can also help with finding sources if anyone gets stuck, but, honestly, I really like your idea, Ivan.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Dr. Edelstein just gave us a huge research paper, and my lab partner’s useless, so I’ll be doing that crap all on my own, looks like.”

“I’m cool with that, honestly,” Alfred said, and Ivan nodded as Kuro and Ursula shrugged. “You’re running yourself ragged enough as is.” He looked around to the others while avoiding Ivan’s eye but trying—and failing—not to be obvious about it. “How about y’all? I only have three classes including this one, and until closer to February, it’s pretty slow at the shop, so I can always do work there.”

“I have five classes,” Kuro volunteered, “but two of them are general classes, so they’re not hard, and pretty sure my music appreciation teacher hates the class as much as us.” He shrugged. “The ghost hunting club’s usually Saturday, but I can always skip. Roland won’t give a shit.”

 _He might even prefer it,_ Alfred thought, but he only nodded.

“I have five classes, too,” Ivan said. “I’m also going to start working at the pizza place on Monday—”

Alfred perked up a bit while trying to seem disinterested.

“—and Mrs. Elfie said it’ll be busy Saturday, and I have to help my step-dad Sunday mornings,” Ivan finished.

“Mm-hmm…,” Ursula hummed into her coffee and glanced at Alfred, and Ivan’s eyes went to the floor. “The pastor got me working Sundays now, too, but it’s mostly sorting, note-taking, and sometimes answering stupid questions, so I can always browse articles or whatever then.”

The five wrote up plans for what they’d be in charge of doing, Kuro excusing himself with a groan when Artemisia called him.

“Why are they together?” Linnea muttered once he was gone.

No one bothered trying to answer, and Ursula left next after taking her and Kuro’s mugs to the counter, where Tadas took them while yelling at Feliciano to get a new dirty dishes tub. She didn’t bother with a goodbye or wave, and Linnea started checking her phone as Alfred got up.

“Um.” He didn’t meet Ivan’s eyes as he pointed at his empty mug. “Done?”

Looking up from his phone, Ivan nodded. “Uh, yeah. Thank—”

Alfred was already gathering the mug and placing it on Linnea’s plate. He grabbed her and his mugs with his other hand, handing them to Carrie as she walked up to the counter at the same time.

“I see Kuro was on his best behavior this time,” she mused, smiling as she met his eyes.

Returning her smile, Alfred nodded. “Yeah, after a while, anyway. Not sure what Linnea has over him, but she can usually get him to behave.”

“A crush, maybe?”

“For his sake, I hope not,” Alfred laughed. “Anyway, nice meeting ya.”

“You, too!”

Alfred walked off, smile faltering at the frown on Ivan’s face. When he realized he saw, however, Ivan ironed his face back to a neutral expression. He went back to scrolling through his phone as Linnea stood and grabbed her bag.

“Ingvar’s out with his girlfriend, so I’m gonna hang out with Mathias before he can get back and ruin the mood by singing ‘Kiss the Girl.’”

“How does that ruin the mood?” Alfred asked in fake-outrage, throwing his hands up, and Linnea shook her head.

“For the last time,” she called back as she strode out of the coffeehouse, “you’re not singing at my wedding!”

“Your loss!” Alfred called after her as the door swung shut.

“Everyone’s gain,” Ivan muttered with the slightest of smirks, and Alfred bristled even as heat rushed to his cheeks.

Before Alfred could formulate a retort, Ivan stood. “I need to go meet my older sister and her”—he faltered—“fiancée. They want my opinion for something or other.” He paused, pale cheeks coloring. It looked like he’d been about to keep going but wanted to stop himself. “See you in class. Or wherever.”

Alfred combed his hair back, trying for a smile that Ivan didn’t even see, since he was already turning away. “Yeah, sure. S-see ya.”

Once Ivan was gone, Carrie muttered something under her breath, and Tadas laughed.

Turning, Alfred asked, “What is it?”

Carrie’s face went red, and she spluttered something about needing to get more peppermint syrup as she hurried towards the back. Tadas and Feliciano, meanwhile, were leaning forward, elbows on the counter and chins resting on their hands. Feliciano’s amber eyes glittered behind his reading glasses, and his auburn bangs were pulled back from his round face with steampunk-style cat ears.

“What?” Alfred demanded, face hotter.

Tadas and Feliciano looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes, their grins growing to where both resembled the Cheshire cat.

“The sweetest ones are always the most clueless,” Feliciano commented, and Tadas laughed again, making Alfred’s face burn hotter.

At the register was Arthur, who was holding a credit card in one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other. “Are you two going to go over the latest episode of _The Young and the Oblivious_ all day, or is one of you going to get me a London Fog?”

Having moved to Mississippi from Gateshead, England in high school, Arthur’s accent rode a middle ground, where to everyone here, he sounded British, but whenever he spoke to his family over phone or Skype, all immediately commented how American he sounded.

Sighing dramatically, Feliciano stood. “I guess I need to earn money _somehow_.”

He took Arthur’s credit card as Alfred snuck around and snatched Arthur’s phone while whispering, “ _Yoink_!”

“ _Oi_!” Arthur lunged for him, nearly falling as Alfred danced away, doing a jig as a couple of customers looked up at the commotion and started clapping. “You want me to bring you home to your mums in handcuffs again?!”

“I think he’d rather the Braginsky spawn put him in handcuffs,” Tadas muttered, and Alfred accidentally dropped Arthur’s cellphone as his face blazed red again.

Snatching up his phone right before it hit the floor, Arthur smirked and ruffled Alfred’s hair.

“Use silk instead. It’s easier on the wrists,” he suggested. His smile grew at Alfred’s horrified expression. “Only _you_ could turn into a Puritan in a house of witches.”

“I’m not a—”

“What were you looking at, anyway?” Feliciano asked as he handed Arthur back his credit card and grabbed a to-go cup. “You’re usually not so tied to your phone.”

“Francis sent me some apartment options he’d been looking—”

“You’re _moving_?!” Alfred, Tadas, and Feliciano exclaimed, nearly making Arthur drop his phone in surprise.

Shoulders tense, Arthur’s green eyes turned to the black-and-white tile floor. “Crud, I thought Francis already told you.” He had to speak louder to be heard over the steamer. He cast an apologetic glance Alfred’s way, knowing how he felt about the people he cared about moving away. “Well, I know it’s been no secret that Francis and I have been having problems, a lot of them stemming from us having to keep secret.”

“You think moving’s going to fix that?” Tadas asked skeptically, and Arthur sighed, shoulders falling.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he admitted. “But what’s important is that we want to make it work, and we’ve agreed that moving to a place where the environment is more favorable would help a lot.”

Alfred nodded, understanding, even if he didn’t like it.

“What about the restaurant?” asked Feliciano.

“Another reason for the fights is the stress Francis has been under, owning his own place of business,” Arthur responded, Feliciano’s mouth became a straight line as he nodded slowly. “He’s already been talking to the owner of the building about his lease. Most likely, we’ll stay here until it ends, but since I’ve already gotten offers on the force in some of the areas we’re interested in, we’re not too worried about what he’ll end up doing.” His mouth turned up in a lopsided smile. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll make more changes, and he can be a stay-at-home dad. Never too old, right?”

“God help you,” Tadas deadpanned as he handed Arthur his tea latte, his attitude towards babies and little kids well-known. It was a good thing he’d found someone who preferred ponies and cats to children.

At the same time, Feliciano wished him and Francis well, and Alfred hugged him, careful about his tea latte and phone.

“I hope y’all do way better, wherever you end up,” he said, and Arthur set his coffee and phone down on the counter to return the embrace.

He had to rise to the balls on his feet to rest his chin on Alfred’s shoulder and give one of his too-tight bear hugs like from when Alfred was a kid. “Feel free to visit; you’ll always have a room with us, even if it means staying on the couch.” He pulled away to meet his gaze, green eyes shimmering as he smiled. Lines marked the corners of his eyes and wide mouth, showing his age and all the laughs he’d shared with the man he loved, despite the arguments in-between. “We’ll still have that cottage I inherited in Ocean Springs, and we’ll need someone to house-sit after we move, until we can find someone to buy it.”

Keeping his smile in place, Alfred nodded. “Yeah, I think I’ll be able to do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: The cabin only has one bed. (And the fact I've already planned that scene may or may not be one reason why I decided to defibrillate this fic and continue it. The other reason is that this is my emotional support fic, and circumstances have made it difficult to seek out a therapist right now.)


	27. Angel-in-a-Trenchcoat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucille = nyo!Luxembourg  
> Siem = 2p!Netherlands

_ “You need only embrace the best-known secret of all: no mystery is closed to an open mind.” ~ Raven Grimassi _

“I don’t know why you thought I could help.” Ivan sat in Kateryna’s usual easychair, legs over the headrest and cheeks flushed as his head hung over the seat. His hair was nearly long enough to brush along the cream-colored carpet. “I don’t know shit about art. Why do you want my opinion? Email your mom or Skype Lucille or Siem.”

Granted, Manon and her mom didn’t talk much anymore. Having never applied for citizenship and with her kids being adults by the time her husband passed away, Mrs. Vermeulen decided to move back to Belgium instead of remaining in California.

“Mom’s just going to tell me that whatever I choose is best,” Manon sighed, turning the Surface around on the coffee table. “Siem’s in Antarctica and will go straight to DC when he returns, to lobby for stricter guidelines, so that corporations stop killing the earth for a quick buck, and Lucille’s busy with her ‘real job.’” Manon used air quotes and groaned, falling back onto the floor. “Ugh! She says that just to get under my skin, I swear to God.”

She mumbled the last sentence, voice wavering slightly. Ivan knew better to comment or offer platitudes, though. Manon was someone who held everything inside and then blasted out everything wrong in short bursts from time to time. It was better to simply listen and let her rant. She never did it for long and quickly moved on to the next topic, anyway.

“I get it,” Manon grumbled. “Her job’s important. Really fucking important. I get it, and she studied herself nearly to death to get where she is, and I’m proud as hell for her! But _God_ it’s given her such a superiority complex! When I first told her about my book and showed her the title, she was just like, ‘Oh, cute’ and immediately changed the subject to talk about _her_ job and how she wished she could have more time to sightsee but ‘Oh, I can’t complain about my job; it really is fulfilling and makes all the work I do worthwhile’ and ugh! She never stops for even a second to think what I do could be worthwhile! All I am to her is just some limelight-loving teenager that refuses to grow up and ‘join the real world’—”

In the middle of her rant, Ivan resituated himself, so he was sitting right-side up. All the blood rushing to his head had given him a headache, but he tried to listen, even though he’d heard this particular rant before. Lucille worked as a travelling surgeon, rarely staying in one city for more than a few months, and she also recently started working with Doctors Without Borders as a general surgeon.

Manon was proud of her little sister and had bragged about her on her channel on occasion, though she stopped when Lucille asked her to—she was shy and didn’t want so many people knowing about her or being able to find her through her sister’s channel. Manon joked at the time that that was the first time Lucille had even implied that Manon had influence over her audience.

Ivan had only met Lucille once, at the dinner after she graduated. She’d kept brushing her long, sweeping bangs away from her left eye to no avail, the rest of her blond hair pulled back in a loose braid. She’d smiled tiredly throughout the night, allowing Manon and her then-boyfriend to do most of the talking. Lucille was about a half-foot taller than Manon and willowy, and Ivan remembered after mentioning her outfit to Kateryna that she told him Lucille dressed that formally all the time.

He wasn’t really sure what to think of Lucille. Sure, she was a surgeon and had worked hard to get into her position. She was also a volunteer on top of that, obviously wanting to help make the world a better place however she could, but she acted as though all these accomplishments made her inherently better and in a high-enough place to judge others.

Not just towards her sister’s job as a YouTuber either. Ivan remembered the way Lucille had side-eyed her and Kateryna when they ate dessert—cheesecake or molten lava cake or something else really sweet—while she’d only gotten a small fruit bowl. She’d even made some comment that had made Kateryna stop eating and push away her dessert. Ivan couldn’t remember the comment, but he recalled thinking how it had sounded like something their stepmom would have said.

He’d never met Siem, but like Lucille, his job took him all over. Ivan didn’t know the official title, but he knew it had something to do with the environment, and he tried to get his research out there and reach the politicians and get laws changed. He was cocky about it, too, based on what Manon had said, but she didn’t make it sound like he was condescending or thought any less of Manon’s job.

In fact, when he was in the country or had Wi-Fi, he’d talk to her about some of his research, to get her opinion on how to word things, so that Average Joe would understand, but not so it sounded as though Siem were talking down to them.

Manon had linked to a lot of his research in her videos where she discussed climate change and different ways each individual person could help. She also brought attention to petitions, making sure to emphasize that while individuals doing their part was good, it wouldn’t do anything long-term or wide-spread until companies were held accountable for the waste they dumped.

When Manon got up and headed towards the kitchen, Ivan knew her rant was over and pulled her Surface onto his lap, snapping the stand shut. The Surface had fallen asleep, but he knew her pin code and started looking through the sample images she’d compiled. All of them offered up to five samples, like mini portfolios. At least one example from each artist Ivan saw so far included a comic page. When he minimized the pictures to look at the folder, he had to scroll down to see all the files; there had to be over a hundred.

 _This is going to take forever_ , thought Ivan as Manon asked how he wanted his coffee.

“Do you have chocolate creamer left?” he asked, looking up.

“’Fraid not,” Manon responded, trying out an exaggerated Southern accent that made Ivan roll his eyes. “Kat picked up a cheesecake flavored one on her way home last night. Wanna try it?”

“Sure. Sounds good.” Ivan read some of the file names. They looked to be the first part of each artist’s e-mail address, followed by a number. “‘Bitchinemailaccount.’”

Manon sighed and pulled a large bottle of creamer out of the fridge. “Unless it’s really offensive, like if it has slurs, I try not to judge.”

“I would.” It’d cut down on the numbers, at least.

“Try to judge the art, not the email addresses,” Manon implored as she brought over the coffees. She pushed the _Can’t Think Straight_ mug to be closer to Ivan and went back to the kitchenette. “I’m settled on having comics at three different parts of _Ghostwritten Clickbai_ _t_. One will be that story in first grade I promised you I won’t talk about anymore”—she checked her phone—“until March sixteenth, when the year is up and I can remind you how badass mini-me was in her heyday.”

Ivan rolled his eyes again but said nothing as Manon continued:

“So I want the art for that to be cute, maybe chibi anime stuff. Or kinda like the Madeline books’ style, or like Tintin.” Manon grinned. “The second one will be that story about that girl in middle school, the one I’ve been calling Feather in my videos—”

“‘The requisite straight-girl crush,’” Ivan recited, having heard this story many times before as well.

It was a funnier story than when Ivan had crushed on a straight guy, who he’d thought might be interested in him back. Coming out stories needed more humor, though.

Ivan had already lived through humiliation and fear. He didn’t want to read or hear about it, too. Some might think it was cathartic—Eduard used to read one drama-filled coming-out story, book, and fanfic after the other until he finally found the courage to come out as bi to his parents—but Ivan found it grating, like it was written more for straight people to feel bad for them, instead for queer people to find mirrors and solace.

Still grinning, Manon got out two bags—one of chips and one of chocolate-covered gummy bears—and poured both into a large bowl. “I’m not as picky for that style, but I’m going back and forth on whether I want all the comics to be similar in style or not.”

“Maybe not,” Ivan suggested. “You might as well just hire one artist for all three otherwise.”

“Hmm.” Manon brought the bowl to the coffee table, and Ivan moved to sit cross-legged in front of the table, so his coffee and the snacks would be in easy reach.

He’d ordered black coffee at Feliciano’s, despite wanting something sweet, when Kuro joked about Alfred always getting “frou frou” drinks, tying it somehow to his sexuality. Ivan hadn’t wanted to deal with the same teasing.

“The third one,” Manon said before popping some chocolate-covered gummy bears into her mouth. She paused to chew and swallow. “The third one’s gonna be about when I first started my channel in high school.”

“When ‘Mrs. Dream-crusher’ gave you back your essay about being a role model with an _F_. She said being gay wasn’t a hardship in today’s world, and no one would need to listen to you being a ‘rainbow-waving colonialist-brat.’”

Manon punched the air. “Showed her!” She laughed and fell back into the couch. “This rainbow-waving Air Force brat now has a trophy and two—hopefully soon-to-be-three Play Buttons—telling her she _is_ a role model!”

It showed how long of a way she’d come since posting her first video, hair in a black-tipped pink fauxhawk with lines shaved on either side of her head, and eyes made dark and large by circle lenses, false lashes, and heavy liner. The cat whiskers painted onto her cheeks dated the video better than the actual posing date.

To this day, people asked why she’d taken down her _Rawr Means I Love You In Dinosaur_ poster.

Ivan remembered stumbling on that first video one day, years before he’d meet her in person at VidCon, let alone know her as a future sister-in-law. She’d smiled and laughed in that first video, but the anger had shone through it all. Now, Manon really did look tickled, like she was remembering an inside joke instead of a statement that had once felt like a slap to the face.

Wiping her eyes, Manon settled down and sat forward to reach for her coffee. “And, yeah. I wanted three different artists, so that I can help out three artists instead of just one. Growing a following’s hard, but maybe this can help, even if just a little. That’s why I want four other artists to draw things for this book, too, but those will be single-page illustrations instead of comics. Maybe someone might go, ‘Oh, hey, this art style is cool, I wonder if they have an IG or Twitter or Tumblr or DA or whatever. But also I’m paying them, so even if they don’t get that many more followers, they still at least get that.”

Ivan nodded and double-tapped on a file to bring it up. He started scrolling through them that way. “Maybe wildly different styles from each other, then?”

“Hmm…” Manon chewed on a chip as she thought. “Let’s narrow down the choices to twenty we really like at least, first, and then we’ll go from there.”

“Got it. How many of these are from Eva’s friends? She’s the girl in my psych class I told you about.”

Manon nodded, remembering. “A day or so after I gave you the greenlight, I got seventeen more emails about this, so that’s probably them. Everyone else is from after my book announcement.”

“With you pushing nine-hundred-thousand subscribers, I would’ve expected more.”

“I deleted all the trolls, stick figures, and blatant thefts already.” Manon rolled her eyes. “Did they really think I wouldn’t recognize Sarah Scribbles’ or Meg’s comic styles? Well, Meg’s I didn’t right away, but I knew it looked familiar and did a bit of digging on IG. It was definitely traced, and one person sent in screenshots. I’ll reverse Google-search the images you choose, just in case.”

“How’d those people expect to make a whole new comic if they got hired by stolen pictures?”

Manon rolled her eyes again. “Don’t question how humans think about anything, especially thieves. You’ll just end up with headaches. Now, make a folder for your choices and move the art you really like there. Just one per e-mail is fine. People sent multiples to show different profiles and perspectives and whatnot.”

“Look at you, with your artist terminology.”

Manon flipped her hair and took a sip from her Cancer mug, which had _crybaby_ crossed out on it and _sensitive_ written underneath.

They settled into silence, Manon’s Spotify playlist playing from the TV. It was mostly instrumental music with some Disney songs sprinkled in, and Ivan smiled as “On My Way” from _The Princess and the Frog_ followed a Piano Guys cover of a song he had only vaguely recognized.

Some of the art looked Disney-inspired, but most looked more anime-inspired. He recognized one style as being really similar to _Vampire Hunter D_ , one of the few animes Ivan had really gotten into. He moved one of the images into his like folder and kept scrolling. A few of the Disney-inspired artists were really good, but Ivan was more partial to the styles that looked more like Tim Burton’s. He wasn’t sure if Manon would like those, but she _did_ ask for _his_ preferences, so Ivan dragged those into the folder.

“Kat got that job with the magazine?” Ivan asked after a while. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes before taking a long sip of coffee.

Having fetched her manuscript while Ivan looked through the art, Manon was now marking something and nodded. She scratched her head with her pen, marking her temple with red ink in the process. “Yeah, they like that she can give a perspective as a sapphic in Hollywood.”

“She’s not worried about it hurting any future contracts?”

Kateryna had been on the fence lately about whether she’d want to go back to acting. She and Manon had brought up the possibility of possibly migrating north, maybe to Oregon or Washington, or a town not far from San Francisco. Kateryna had always had a love for writing, but Thieving Bitch had pushed her to be in the limelight.

Not on purpose, however. Their stepmom would just make jabs about how Kateryna didn’t have the look directors wanted for leads, which had sent Kateryna to acting classes and audition after audition, just to prove her wrong.

Unfortunately, if Thieving Bitch had gotten anything right, it was the superficiality of Hollywood. Kateryna’s role in _Cherish_ had been her biggest one, and it had gotten only two seasons. The small fanbase had been outraged, some crying out, “It’s Sense8 all over again!” on blogs and Twitter.

Since being here, Kateryna had only been recognized from her role twice, but, granted, she did look much different with her hair grown to just past her chin. It was also back to its natural wheat blond color that she’d shared with Nicholas; on the show, she’d had to dye it black and had used make-up to make her eyebrows match. Make-up had also given her a long scar that went over her nose and her left cheek and a spiderweb tattoo on her neck.

And for interviews, all that contouring had made her look almost like a different person, especially with her dark fauxhawk and smokey eye makeup.

Even Viktor and Anya wouldn’t recognize her as being the same person, if they’d somehow seen the show. Ivan doubted it; they refused to get Netflix—“A company that makes money off of sin,” Viktor had called it. He wasn’t a fan of Hulu, either, ever since _A Handmaiden’s Tale_ became popular. He’d called the show an attack on Christianity.

Manon shrugged. “Depends on the cast director. Some might turn her away, while others might shrug it off, since the magazine’s pretty small. Others might hire people to find her articles and re-tweet them to get it circulating, to get buzz about her role in their film or show or whatever. All depends on the angle.”

Ivan nodded. “Do you think you’d shout-out the magazine on your channel?”

Manon set her manuscript down and looked up in thought. “I hadn’t thought about it. I can bring it up to Kat, but I don’t want to do it, if it’s possible the chief editor or whoever wouldn’t like that. If they get mad, that’s Kat’s job at risk.”

Picking out some chocolate-covered gummy bears, Ivan nodded. “Understandable.” He popped the candy into his mouth and went back to looking at the art. He kept them full-screen, to avoid seeing the titles. He didn’t want to risk coming across an email address he recognized and feel pressured one way or the other. He couldn’t remember if Eva said she’d send something in, but he knew he’d feel the need to add her to his ‘like’ folder.

Her outburst came to mind again; he hadn’t liked the way she screamed at him, making him feel pinned-down, even though he’d known he hadn’t done anything wrong. Sure, he’d looked at her scars. Sure, he’d judged her in his mind, but it had been hard not to notice them. He’d made sure not to bring them up and had planned to only treat her as he had been, not wanting to upset her.

So much for that.

 _No use worrying about it_ , he thought, clicking through the pictures.

He had to minimize the app in order to move the picture to his folder, though, which added tedium to the process. Some of the e-mails made him second-guess his choices, but most of them were people’s names. Some were what looked like usernames, possibly tied to accounts of the artists trying to build an audience.

A black-and-white image caught his eye. It used the solid-black for the darkest shadows that Ivan liked but also had hatch-shading for the lighter shadows, and the style was semi-realistic, the overall effect comic book-like. The picture looked like a film noir screenshot had been used as reference, the guy’s fedora pulled low and coat collar pulled up as he leaned against a brick wall, cigarette in hand. Based on ink blots here and there, Ivan guessed this to be pen-and-paper, which surprised him. At first glance, he’d assumed it was digital. Once he realized it was done on paper, he noticed that some lines weren’t perfectly straight, as he’d thought. Some wobbled a bit and bled into each other.

He moved the picture into his folder, smiling at the email name: angel-in-a-trenchcoat. Ivan had only watched _Supernatural_ through season seven, but Castiel was his favorite character. He wished he’d been able to keep his _I’ll interrogate the cat_ T-shirt, but he’d had to get rid of all his geek merch, lest Viktor recognize a reference and deem the show, movie, comic, or book as demonic.

The name “angel-in-a-trenchcoat” was attached to four other pictures, and while Ivan had only been putting one picture per artist (he was still in the As, for God’s sake), the fourth picture by angel-in-a-trenchcoat caught his eye. This one was in color, and it was definitely digital—Ivan would eat the cafeteria’s “stoner pizza” if it wasn’t. The coloring had a painted feel with the shading, though, and this picture was fanart for _Steven Universe_.

The semi-realistic style made Opal look beautiful, even if the ruins behind her were dark- and dreary-looking. Without the name of the file, Ivan wouldn’t have known it was the same artist.

Ivan added that to the folder, too, wanting angel-in-a-trenchcoat to be chosen and knowing that Manon wanted the comics to be in color.

By the time Ivan had looked through all the pictures, he had dragged close to fifty into his like folder, and he’d had to move closer to the outlet, the Surface needing to be plugged in. He’d finished his coffee, and Manon stirred from her unexpected nap as the door opened.

“Hello, hello!” Kateryna sang as Manon grumbled that she just needed five more minutes.

Setting her bag down, Kateryna took the blanket off the back of the couch and laid it over her fiancée, who settled back into sleep.

“She’d been having trouble sleeping,” Kateryna explained to Ivan, voice lower. She took the empty mugs to the kitchen. “Refill?”

“No thanks,” Ivan said, setting the tablet aside and standing. “Unless you need someone to bitch to.”

Chuckling, Kateryna shook her head, bobby pins slipping down the bangs they were valiantly trying to keep out of Kateryna’s round face. Her fine hair was board-straight and nearly impossible to style, which Kateryna heard about generously from stylists over her years of acting. Pins, clips, and ponytail holders always slipped right off eventually, and no curl would last longer than an hour, even after getting attacked by an entire can of hairspray.

“Nah, the job’s nice enough,” she said, filling the mugs with some soapy water and setting them aside to be washed later. She then grabbed her own mug to help herself to some coffee. “The chief editor’s blunt but overall nice, and she knows her history really well. Her assistant’s more air-headed, but they’re nice and really parent-like.” She laughed. “They’ll ask people if they brought lunch and if they can pick them up anything, if they’re comfortable, _et cetera_. They even keep extra sweaters in their part of the office.”

Ivan smiled and went to hug his sister. “Learned everyone’s names yet?”

“Most of the writers are freelance, like me, and only a few of us hang around the office to write. Most stay at home or have their little writing spots, like the park or café, or wherever. Chief’s name is Alice, though, and Zine Parent’s name is Fiiar, and the only other writers I’ve gotten acquainted with are Aneke and Faustina. There’s a second assistant, but I’ve only seen her once in passing, but the nametag taped to her desk said her name’s Conception.”

“Two assistants?” Ivan asked, breaking a piece off Kateryna’s chocolate bar when she held it out to him. “I thought this was a pretty small magazine.”

After swallowing a bite of chocolate, Kateryna nodded. “Both are, though I’ve seen the other one at the bookstore, so it’s doing pretty well. Alice runs two: _Lavender Menace_ , the one I’m writing for, and _Southern Spiral_.”

“Sounds like a rollercoaster.”

“It’s a witchcraft and pagan magazine.”

“The witch magazine got into bookstores, but the gay one didn’t?”

Kateryna snorted. “I know, right?” She shrugged. “I’ve looked at a couple of the older issues they keep at the office, though. Lots of goddess-worship, and since there’s an overlap with the writers, there’s gay stuff in there, too. I skimmed, mostly. I thought the witchcraft articles would be more…” She made a motion with her fingers, like she expected glitter or sparks to sprinkle from them. “I don’t know, but it mostly sounds like hippie, love-everyone-and-hug-a-tree stuff.”

She picked her coffee back up and took a long sip.

“Speaking of, has Manon gotten her Tarot cards?” Ivan asked. “I thought she wanted to do the card reading video soon.”

“In a hurry for us to interrogate your boyfriend?” Kateryna ruffled his hair until Ivan stepped away and swatted at her hand. “She found this pretty deck she really liked on Etsy and is waiting to hear back from the artist about using them and them being talked about on her video, so the video’s been pushed back. She’s taking a break this week in the meantime.”

Ivan only nodded. Manon didn’t take breaks often, but when she did, it was usually in January. Her dad passed away January 24; winter was just a sad time for all of them. She never let on that she felt any worse this time of the year, but after knowing her long enough, Ivan could pick up on her cues.

Looking over at Manon, Ivan tried to smile and asked, “Think this might end up a gateway into witchy-dom for her?”

Chuckling, Kateryna shrugged. “She’d had a phase where she dabbled already, so honestly, I wouldn’t be shocked if she got interested again.”

“Just probably less pissing in jars.”

Kateryna didn’t slap her hand over her mouth fast enough to catch the coffee that sprayed from her laughing, and Ivan stepped around her to hit the center of her back with the heel of his palm as she coughed.

“I can hear you!” Manon called from the couch, and Kateryna coughed more as she laughed harder. “See? The piss jars work!”

Ivan snorted as he tried to hold Kateryna up as she continued to laugh, tears welling in her eyes.

“Go back to sleep!” Ivan told her and laughed when Manon responded by blowing a raspberry. “Well, watch out; Nat said anything you do comes to bite you in the ass three times three.”

Wiping her eyes as she stood up straight, Kateryna said, “That explains the coughing last night.”

Manon held up a middle finger and let it drop. “Keep it up, and I’m showing your baby pictures to your boyfriend, Eevee!”

“Not my boyfriend!” Ivan insisted at the same time Kateryna said, “That’s not punishment for me; I’d love that!”

She grinned as Ivan glared at her, and Manon laughed, pushing herself up.

“Awake now?” Ivan asked. “I sorted all the pictures I like, but it’s closer to fifty than twenty.”

“I’ll look through his and pick my favorites out of those to narrow it down more,” Kateryna offered, and Manon motioned towards the Surface as she yawned. “Take a bath in the meantime. I got lost and ended up in a city called Pass Christian and found a Lush store. I picked up some bath bombs and a couple moisturizing bars while I was there. They’re by the door.”

Mumbling a “Thank you,” Manon shuffled towards the paper bag by the door, nearly falling over as she grabbed.

Ivan excused himself when the bathroom door closed.

“I still have homework to do,” he said, and Kateryna gave him a hug.

“Good luck, and thanks,” she said in a low voice, and Ivan nodded.

Manon didn’t like being alone, especially this time of year, and sometimes Kateryna got nervous.

“Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to look up if there was a Lush in Biloxi or Gulfport and ended up with sites telling me there were bath bombs at the Dollar General. Thanks Google but not what I wanted to know.


	28. Small Town Polite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally I've reached the first chapter I've written since retiring this fic over a year ago.
> 
> Yang = 2p!nyo!China  
> Dr. Van Mander = 2p!Belgium

_“Only accurate information has practical application, so it doesn't matter what you wanna believe. All that matters is why we should believe it too, and how accurate your perception can be shown to be.” ~ Aron Ra_

Ivan was getting close to wanting to strangle Yang. He still liked Blanche enough at least, but she appeared to be avoiding him. Part of him wanted to sit down with her and explain that he was nothing like Viktor, but another part reminded him that a guy—let alone one as tall as him—randomly pulling a girl aside was not a good idea, regardless of intentions. Even if she did appear like someone who could easily take care of herself, if she wasn’t so shy.

Blanche looked like she’d probably be the same height or taller than Olha, and when she took off her sweater earlier, Ivan almost did a second-take. She looked like she lifted weights.

“I saw her first, Hollywood,” Yang had whispered, making Ivan jump.

She’d smiled, similarly to Elfriede when she’d first introduced herself.

“I see Empress is finally bringing some testosterone into the family,” she said and held out a hand, which Ivan took tentatively. She raised an eyebrow at the lackluster handshake. “Or maybe not.” She took her hand back after one shake and retrieved a small bottle of hand sanitizer in a spray bottle and sprayed one hand, then motioned for Ivan to hold out his. “I don’t know how you shake hands over in Soy-boi Land, but people here will slam you down immediately in the pansy box if your limbs turn to jelly, especially compared to one of the ‘fairer sex’ almost half your size.”

Clearing his throat, Ivan felt his cheeks warm as he rubbed the hand sanitizer over his hands as he followed Yang into the kitchen.

Now, they were halfway through the day, and while Yang was condescending throughout, she at least explained everything thoroughly. Her words were quicker than most, and she didn’t have as much as a pronounced accent, though. Only the occasional stretched vowel and insistence of saying _car-mul_ and _pick-hawn_ giving her away.

At times, her dark eyes lingered on Blanche, who offered both of them smiles and the occasional kind word but otherwise kept to herself. Like Yang, though, she’d chat with the customers, seeming to be friends with them all. When it came time for Ivan to try waiting on tables himself after Blanche left for the day, he found it hard to say more than a greeting and promises of being back with their orders quickly.

“Ivan,” Elfriede sang as she leaned out of the kitchen, keeping hold of the swinging door.

Ivan assured the customers he’d return with their drinks in a moment. In the kitchen, Elfriede had gone back to kneading bread to create braided loaves, two already sitting ready to be put into the oven.

“Ivan,” said Elfriede as she kept her eyes on the dough, “please repeat after me: ‘How’s your momma and ‘em?’”

“‘How’s your—?’ Huh—?”

Sighing, Elfriede pushed her glasses up back into place using the side of her elbow and started separating the mound of dough into three equal balls. She started to roll one into a long snake-like shape. “A little lesson in Small Town Polite, Hollywood: It ain’t enough to just be all ‘Hello, g’day, how are ya, goodnight.’ You ever see _Forrest Gump_ , hon?”

“Yes. Ma’am.” Ivan was quicker to add the _ma’am_ to the end than he typically was, and Elfriede laughed.

“You’re learning; there’s hope.” She started rolling a second snake. “Well, one thing _Forrest Gump_ got very much correct was the boy tellin’ his life’s story to just anyone passing by his spot on the bus stop. Spend five minutes with a born-and-bred Southerner, you will know their name, occupation, the names of all their kids and how many cats they’ve adopted despite never bein’ able to keep a plant alive in their life, how they cope or don’t with the unresolved trauma brought on by being caught in the middle of their momma and daddy’s loveless marriage, and of course, you end up with an invitation to their church’s potluck.” She started on the third mound of dough. “That table you were just at. Can you describe the patrons for me?”

“Um….” Ivan thought, glancing at his notepad, even though it only told him the drinks. “Two women, one with short brown hair and wearing a plaid vest and those Hipster-style glasses, and the other was blond, also with short hair and wearing a rose-print shirt. A grey felt hat—fedora, maybe?—was hanging from her chair.”

Elfriede hummed as she finished braiding the bread. “Hmm, not bad. You remember either of them from the campus?”

“Uh…” Ivan thought the brunette had looked familiar, but he couldn’t think of where he’d seen her, and he told Elfriede that.

“You’ve most likely seen her in the building with all the English classes,” she said as she painted the braided bread with egg. “Isala Van Mander. Doctor. Whatever. She teaches a comic book class; you don’t really need a doctorate for that, but whatever, she’s got the letters after her name anyway. The blond doesn’t hang around the school so much anymore, since she’s got her Masters already. That’s Margarethe Scholl, and she got two Bachelor's degrees in art and art history, and her Master’s is also in art history. She draws comics, illustrations for kids’ books, commissions, logos… ask her, and she’ll refer to her occupation as ‘whoring out her art.’”

Ivan wasn’t sure how to respond, so he simply remained silent, and Elfriede handed him a tray and motioned him closer as she prepared four drinks: water and lemonade without ice along with Dr. Van Mander’s Dr. Pepper and Margarethe’s Sierra Mist.

“And soon as I let you get back to them with their drinks, Margarethe’s roommate Olivia and Van Mander’s partner, Chiara, should be there.” She smiled when Ivan shifted his stance to keep the drinks balanced. “Chiara uses the pronouns _they_ and _them_ , by the way. It might not come up while you talk with them, but keep that in mind, since so few around here do, and they’re a good tipper. You’ll _love_ having them in your section, so play nice. And the water’s for Olivia. She’s one’ve them vegans, so I’ll go ahead and get started on her special order.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good, now go. Don’t worry about remembering _everything_ your first day, but do put in the effort. It’s the easiest way to survive here, and really, it’s just polite. Now, tell them I kept you. I’m sure Margarethe will take the part of a kettle to the pot, talkin’ about my big mouth.”

Ivan managed a chuckle, barely dodging Yang as she swung into the kitchen to shout out some orders for Elfriede as Ivan left.

“Sorry for the wait,” he told the four women as he reached their table. He handed Dr. Van Mander and Margarethe their drinks first. “Mrs. Elfie wanted to speak with me for a bit about my first day.”

“If we switched to wind,” said Margarethe, “that woman could power the whole state just by flapping her gums.”

“The entirety of the South,” amended the new brunette as Ivan set the lemonade in front of them. “Thank you, hon.”

Ivan guessed them to be Dr. Van Mander’s partner, by the band on their left ring finger.

“No problem,” he said, then asked if they all knew what they’d like to order.

Olivia, who had her mound of red curls pulled back into a ponytail, said that Elfriede was probably already preparing her usual, and the others were sharing a large veggie pizza with normal crust. Ivan assured that the pizza would be ready soon and that he’d be right back with some bread that was fresh out of the oven.

“Unless Mrs. Elfie needs to talk to me about how I’m doing again,” he laughed, earning a round of laughter from the women.

“You’re doing just fine, sweetie,” said Olivia, blue eyes soft as she smiled.

“Don’t let her get to you,” said Chiara as they adjusted the low tail their wavy, dark brown hair was pulled back in. “She just likes to feel high and mighty.”

“And I can always talk to her if she wants to cause her employees trouble,” Margarete offered, smirking as Dr. Van Mander rolled her eyes, arms crossed over her chest.

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Ivan assured. “But thank you!”

He headed to the kitchen, where he gave the table’s order to Elfriede.

“Getting the hang of things?” asked Yang as she entered the kitchen with an empty tray.

“I think so,” Ivan replied, and Elfriede pushed a pizza into the oven and retrieved another ball of dough. “Are most of the people here regulars? How do you remember their names?”

Yang followed Ivan to where the prepared bread was, each loaf set onto a wooden tray with two small cups—white for regular butter and black for apple butter.

“Blanche is better at it than me,” she said. “But most of them are from school, and since I was undeclared my first two years, I took classes in just about every building and ended up meeting lots of people. The majority of the people that come here Saturday are English majors or part of that writing club, so you might know a lot of them already.”

Ivan wasn’t so sure; he’d had a lot of names thrown at him over the past few weeks. He nodded, though, and he followed Yang out into the main part of the restaurant and served the four women their bread.

The rest of the day went well, though Ivan couldn’t bring himself to joke with the customers like Yang, and he didn’t have the knowledge to ask customers about some relative’s or friend’s health or current project. He did manage to chat a bit with some of the customers and remembered some he’d met at campus, like Jens, who was hanging out with two girls named Vigdís and Leonora instead of Lutz.

Jens had asked Ivan if he was going to recite any poems on Saturday, but Ivan only said he might one day during a break or on his day off.

“Did good for your first day,” said Yang as she hung up her apron.

Smiling, Ivan pocketed his tips and hung his up next to hers. Instead of hooks, door handles that looked to be either antique or painted to look that way had been bolted into the wall; Ivan kept the design in mind as a way to decorate his room when he got his own place.

“Thanks,” he said. “It was pretty overwhelming at first.”

“You get used to it. And try to be a little less wooden next time. Awkward just… _radiates_ off you.” Yang crossed her arms over her chest and turned towards Flavia, who had taken over for Elfriede just before dinner. “Need a ride home, Ranger?”

Flavia put the rest of the dishes into the industrial-sized washer and turned it on. “That character died.” She groaned and started unbuttoning her bubblegum-pink smock, strands of her long, blond hair falling over her olive-toned face. “I decided to give being a rogue a try. Michelle promised it’d be fun. And sure! Thanks, hon. Imre said it’ll take a week until my baby’s driveable again.” She turned her gaze to Ivan, her brown eyes sparkling. “Had a good first day, sweetie?”

“I did.” He looked at Yang when she asked if he needed a ride, too. “No, thanks. My car’s in the back.”

Since parking in the square was limited, employees had to park in the lots behind the buildings.

Ivan moved aside as Flavia went to hang up her smock with the aprons. She was only a few inches shorter than him in her ruby stiletto platforms, and he wondered why she wore them just to cook in the back. She took her magenta purse off the crystal door knob before putting up her smock in its place, and she withdrew pink heart-shaped sunglasses and put them on as Yang held up a key ring and grabbed a box of leftovers.

Flavia hugged Ivan before they parted, even kissing him on both cheeks and insisting it was the chic thing in Europe as Yang groaned and threatened to leave her behind.

Chattering about favors she’d done for her, Flavia skipped to Yang’s Mazda, which she’d parked beneath the only streetlight that didn’t keep winking on and off. Ivan had parked further back, since at his old job, employees had been required to park in the back of the lot. There was a third car, near where the pizzeria’s and a paint-and-sip’s lots met. It was probably an employee at the painting place cleaning up or someone from the school who, like Ivan, hadn’t wanted to pay for a campus parking decal.

Flavia leaned out her window and whistled as Yang drove off, and Ivan waved as he heard someone call his name.

Ivan, standing by his car, looked around. When his name was called again, he realized it was coming up the hill, across the street of the narrow back road he’d used to get to the lot. The building looked like an old cabin, a silhouette with familiar sticking-up hair standing on the wrap-around porch.

“Mathias?” Ivan called, heading towards what he soon realized was the frat-owned bar Mathias had mentioned he worked at.

The blond man was vaping on the porch, and as Ivan adjusted to the sudden light spilling out through the door and windows, he saw that Mathias was smiling.

“The peppermint shakes so good you decided you needed a discount?” he joked, and Ivan laughed, shaking his head when Mathias offered him his pen.

“Needed a job, and apparently, Mrs. Elfriede is an old friend of my mom’s.” Ivan glanced inside the bar as he heard a sudden wave of laughter following someone drunkenly quoting some Vine Ivan only vaguely recognized through their slurring. “It’s a bit overwhelming, but I’m grateful. My older sister was looking for weeks before finally getting any calls back.”

“It was over a year for me,” Mathias offered, nodding. “Ingvar—he’s my roommate—was plenty understanding, and I’ve almost paid him all the way back, because I insisted on paying interest, too. My dad woulda tanned my hide if he’d had to get a call from the landlord he needed to pay my share. He’d bitched for a month about me needing a co-signer.”

“Yeah, I remember my step-mom hadn’t been happy when Kat, my older sister, needed a co-signer and tried to talk my dad out of doing it. Luckily, since she’s rented before, she didn’t need one this time when we moved here.”

“I’d love that, just to avoid my dad’s bitching, but”—Mathias shrugged and pocketed his vape pen—“so long as I’m a college student, I’ll still need a co-signer, and the way things are going, I might not get my Bachelor’s until I’m thirty.” He sighed and shrugged again. “Anyway, my break’s over, but wanna come in for a drink? A tap was just installed. Not many options right now, but the brown ale’s good. I’ll even pay for your first.”

Dear God, what Ivan wouldn’t give for a drink, but he couldn’t risk it. He shook his head, trying not to look upset as his anger towards Viktor continued to burn.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I should get home. A key hasn’t been made for me yet, so my step-dad’s staying up to wait for me.”

“Must be one of the only people in town that doesn’t sleep with their door unlocked,” Mathias laughed. “I know Ingvar gets hella annoyed at me whenever I leave our door unlocked. Anyway, I’ll let you go then. Maybe another time.”

Maybe, when Ivan moved out, and if Mathias didn’t hate him.

Still, Ivan smiled. “Sure.”


	29. House of Hypocrisy and Hatred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antisemitism and transphobia (plus Lise accidentally outing someone) when Lise gives Ivan a ride to campus, after she asks about who Ivan was talking to. And after Ivan says he doesn't drink, a harsh punishment he received from his dad in the past is described.

_“I do understand what love is ... Love is not self denial. Love is not blood and suffering. ... Love is not hatred or wrath, consigning billions of people to eternal torture because they have offended your ego or disobeyed your rules. Love is not obedience, conformity, or submission. It is a counterfeit love that is contingent upon authority, punishment, or reward. True love is respect and admiration, compassion and kindness, freely given by a healthy, unafraid human being.” ~ Dan Barker_

When Ivan parked in the square, a guy that had been sitting on the bench in front of the statue in the middle of the square’s center garden closed his book and stood up. He had long, ash blond bangs that were slicked back on one side, the rest of his bangs falling over his left eye. He wore a simple button-up blue shirt that matched his eyes, and the shirt was tucked into khakis. The outfit reminded Ivan of something Viktor would wear.

And hanging over his heart was a golden cross.

Before he even spoke, Ivan knew he had to be the guy Anya had told him about—the one from Viktor’s church that had created the new Christian club on campus.

“Ivan Arlovsky.”

The guy turned to pick up his black coat, which had been draped over the back of the bench. Despite it still being in the low forties, he didn’t appear cold, the bastard, but something about that piqued Ivan’s memory.

“Braginsky,” Ivan corrected, closing his car door and locking it. He tried for a smile, but it faltered when it wasn’t returned. “Sigurd, right?”

Sigurd Hansteen. The boy with ice water for blood, according to that one girl who’d tried to strike up a conversation with Ivan before finding out he was the deacon's step-son.

“Amazing you would remember that much,” Sigurd replied, his hard gaze making Ivan’s jaw set. “Always keeping to yourself, zoning out. Do you even remember the verses Deacon Viktor preached about?”

Only enough to pull his weight in conversation after, which wasn’t much. Viktor preferred hearing himself talk.

Before Ivan could answer, though, Sigurd continued: “Or were you thinking of meeting up with that atheist drunk again? Though I guess you didn’t actually step foot in that bar.”

Atheist drunk? Bar?

 _Mathias_ , Ivan realized, and he suddenly remembered that third car in the parking lot. “N-no, I don’t drink.”

Much. He’d been allowed a cup of beer or wine since he was fifteen, but ever since Nicholas caught him driving home while drunk—thankfully without any accidents—Ivan usually turned away the offer, especially when it was the harder stuff. He still couldn’t even smell vodka without getting sick again thanks to his dad’s punishment.

He’d just started on the second bottle before he’d started vomiting, unable to make it to the toilet. When he’d been able to move again, he’d had to clean up all the sick himself, the room still tilted and turning, his head still spinning, his arms shaking as chills combed through his body. Nicholas had made him swallow two spoonfuls of the activated charcoal Thieving Bitch kept with her weight loss and detox stuff before Ivan went to bed. His tongue was still black when he woke up.

The resulting hangover had been worse. He’d spent the day lying in bed, nibbling on Saltines, and sipping water or ginger ale when his stomach wasn’t protesting too much.

He had never seen his dad so angry before or since.

 _“You feel this bad, because you’re still alive,”_ Nicholas had told him as Ivan nibbled on a cracker, eyes filled with sorrow, regret, shame. _“You very well might not have been. I wasn’t an only child, you know, and I’m not talking about Katy.”_

Nicholas would have been the middle child, had things been normal for their family.

As much as Ivan hated his dad for the punishment, he hated him a little less after hearing about his uncle. Nicholas sometimes went too far, sometimes didn’t do enough. He wasn’t a saint, would have laughed at anyone who’d tried to call him that.

But, _God_ , Ivan missed him so much that his bones ached. He felt brittle. Just one flick, and he’d shatter.

“And Mathias gave me a ride before,” Ivan continued, blinking hard as he felt his eyes sting. He stepped closer to Sigurd, forcing him to look up to keep meeting his gaze. “He’s been kind to me. Should I not show kindness to him? Do we not follow a Lord that dined with sinners?”

That, at least, he knew, thanks to reading the book of Mark and part of Matthew.

“Debatable,” said Sigurd after a beat, and he pulled one arm through a sleeve of his coat.

He also picked up the messenger bag at the foot of the bench and flipped it open to slip his book in. As he did, Ivan saw that it was _Good Omens_ by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Ivan hadn’t read it, but he’d read a couple of Gaiman’s other books as well as the _Sandman_ series, and he’d been a fan of _Discworld_ since he was little, finding only solace in libraries as he escaped bullies from school.

And even if he’d never read _Good Omens_ , Ivan knew the premise; it was far from a Viktor-approved book.

“I don’t know the church you attended before this,” Sigurd continued, “but ours is a house of hypocrisy and hatred, and _atheist_ is spelled the same way as _devil worshiper_.”

Heart thudding, Ivan could only stare. What was this? What was Sigurd saying? Was this a trick?

Eyes closed, Sigurd pulled his arm through the second sleeve and secured his bag’s strap over his head. “I’ve been giving thought to what giving the information I have would be.” He raised his eyebrows at Ivan’s scared look. “But I’d gain nothing from telling Viktor about you talking to Mathias or visiting Vargas’s café. However, if you’re so interested on keeping up the mask, I suggest joining the Army of God club when you’re not working. It meets Wednesday nights at five. I don’t need to tell him anything, but others might jump at the chance to lick his shoes.”

He started walking towards campus, taking his cell phone out and scrolling through something as he walked.

Shivering as a sudden breeze blew by, Ivan could only stare after him. _He really does have ice water for blood_.

“Hey, crit bud!”

Jumping, Ivan turned to see a blue Corolla parked next to his lemon, Julchen leaning out the passenger-side window.

“Need a ride?” she asked, having to raise her voice as the wind picked up.

Though he was still shivering, Ivan shook his head and smiled. “Thanks, but it’s a short walk from here.” He pointed at his car. “That’s mine. I decided against a parking decal.”

The driver’s side window rolled down, and a girl with long, chestnut brown hair in a fishtail braid over her shoulder leaned out of the window. Large sunglasses covered half her face, even though the sky was overcast today.

“Just get in the car, loser!” she yelled at him, and Julchen laughed.

Ivan had to bite his tongue to stop himself from retorting, “Why? Are we going shopping?”

Instead, he thanked them and got into the seat behind Julchen as she and the driver raised their windows.

As the car pulled out of the space and headed around the traffic circle, the driver asked for Ivan’s name—even though she’d likely heard it from Julchen—and then introduced herself as Lise Edelstein. Her dad taught piano classes and occasionally music appreciation—“When he draws the short straw”—while her step-mom taught criminology courses, mostly Deviance and Social Control and Biopsychological Criminology.

“You’ve probably heard her get called Dr. Rogue,” Lise said. “She has piebaldism, which causes the front part of her hair to be almost white, even though the rest of her hair is black.”

“She usually seems pretty scary,” Julchen added. “But she’s really nice. I haven’t had any classes in that building, though, so I only see her when visiting Lise.”

“You’ll have to take either sociology or government eventually,” Lise sighed, stopping as the light at the crosswalk turned red. “So you’re taking the fiction workshop class?” She glanced at the rearview mirror to see Ivan, but it was hard to tell if she was looking at him due to her sunglasses. “How d’you like Dr. Sappho?”

It took a moment for him to remember that _Dr. Sappho_ was a nickname for Dr. Adnan.

“A little strict, but nice otherwise,” he answered. “Reminds me of the workshop class I took at my last school.”

“Dr. Sappho’s great,” Julchen said as she stretched her arms out. She quickly brought them to her side again and apologized when she nearly hit Lise in the head. “She taught mine and Lise’s oh-one class, too. She also teaches the syntax class, but I’m not looking forward to taking that.”

She stuck her tongue out, turning so Ivan could see, and he laughed, agreeing. The anxiety Sigurd had caused him was already starting to melt away.

Until Lise asked, “Was that the Hansteen kid you were talking to?”

“Um, yeah. He was reading when I got out of my car,” said Ivan.

He wasn’t sure how much information to give. He didn’t know if they knew who Viktor was or that he was his step-son. Would they be this nice if they did?

Lise scoffed and slowed down, turning her blinker on. “I can’t stand any of those ‘Warriors of God’ or whatever they call themselves.” She turned into the lot in front of Laurasia Hall. It looked nearly full already, and Lise barely touched the gas as she searched for a spot. “One of them dropped ham onto my plate as he passed by in the caf, and if one more of them calls me ‘Christ-killer,’ I’m turning _them_ into ham.”

“Sigurd’s not one of the people doing that, at least,” Julchen said, tone showing she was trying to calm Lise down. She was nervously twisting a lock of her hair.

“No, but he doesn’t say or do anything about it,” Lise grumbled. “Not ever. Even when one of his club members went after Ohla two years ago and _lifted her skirt_ , asking, ‘What ya got under there?’—”

Lise suddenly froze, shoulders up, head moving to where Ivan gathered she was likely looking back at him using the rearview mirror again.

Quickly, Julchen tossed in her two cents: “He kinda looked like he wanted to, from what I saw, and he does go to my mom’s old church. I dunno his home life or if he really believes all Smyth—well, that other guy now—says, but if any of the other club members saw him defend anyone they deemed ‘unnatural’ or ‘sinful’ or whatever, it could get hard for him at home. Worst case, scenario, he’ll be seen as ‘bringing sin into the home’ and get the boot. Remember Davie Flowers from high school?”

As she let out a long exhale, Lise loosened her grip on the steering wheel and pulled into an empty spot. “Yeah….”

She said something about hearing from a girl Ivan hadn’t heard of that Davie was couch-surfing in New Orleans, but Ivan was still staring at the side rearview mirror, where Julchen’s eyes had met his. It was only for a moment; maybe he’d imagined it.

“Sorry if your classes are across campus,” Lise said, turning to face Ivan as she pulled off her sunglasses.

Her eyes were large and deep blue, and her eyeliner and cut-crease eyeshadow in neutral tones looked like a professional had done it. Her lashes were also so long, Ivan wondered if it made wearing glasses a hindrance.

“Actually, my classes today are in Laurasia and Gondwana, so this works out great,” he said, and Lise smiled.

“Good, glad to be of help.” She opened her door and combed her long, sweeping bangs back from her face. “You can pay me back for gas later. Julchen, do you have your salt?”

 _Salt?_ thought Ivan, then _Wait, gas money?_

But he didn’t say anything as Julchen opened the smallest pocket of her backpack and pulled out a handful of salt packets.

She opened the door the same time as Ivan, pulling her hair out from under her backpack after putting it on.

“I don’t even need my cane today!” Julchen proclaimed, flashing a peace sign as she grinned. She turned to Ivan as Lise muttered something and opened the trunk. “I have a chronic illness that can make me faint sometimes, so don’t freak out if it happens. Salt helps, though, which is why the professors let me eat fries in class. Perks of having a body built with Satan’s blueprints!”

She laughed, Ivan managing to laugh a bit as well, though a little nervously.

“Alright.” Lise slammed the trunk closed and locked her car. She pulled her book bag’s strap over her head, and in her other hand, she held what looked like a violin case. “Heading to Nula. Nice meeting you, Ivan, and, Julchen, don’t forget to smack Prof Asshole upside the head for me!”

Laughing, Julchen hooked her arm through Ivan’s and led him towards Laurasia Hall.

“It’s an absolute art how Williams manages to get under people’s skin when tearing apart their poetry,” she said, still chuckling. “You should try entering the Valentine's Day contest, if only to rip off the band-aid. And don’t listen about the gas money thing. She’s joking. She even scolded Alfred when he tried to pay her back a few months back. So don’t worry about it.”

She gave a toothy grin up at him, and Ivan smiled back, though it faltered somewhat at the mention of Alfred.

When Julchen faced forward again, though, her tone turned softer, more serious.

“Don’t let what Lise said about Sigurd get to you,” she said, still facing forward as Ivan kept looking down at her. “Like I said, my mom used to go to the church he goes to. I’ve seen the way it’s messed her up. Dad’s constantly asking her opinion on things; she hardly ever volunteers what she’s thinking. I remember her having total break-downs when I was little, and I’d hold her and sing, like _my_ singing could honestly make _anyone_ feel better.” She chuckled again, but it sounded hollow. “And Davie Flowers? His parents found out he’d signed a petition to get the Bible verse removed from our school’s mural in the cafeteria. He’s still a believer, but he wasn’t _their_ kind of believer. He wanted to help make the world more accepting and equal for others. His parents thought doing that was akin to inviting the Devil into the house, so when he got home one day, there was just a suitcase on the patio. The locks had been changed, and all of his other things had been donated to the Salvation Army. I hadn’t seen him since then.”

Julchen’s lips pressed tightly against each other as her brow furrowed, pale eyes shiny behind her glasses. Ivan’s chest felt tight, and he looked at the ground, bangs falling over his eyes.

 _“Ours is a house of hypocrisy and hatred,”_ Sigurd had said.

Julchen continued, voice shaking slightly: “Sometimes all you can do is survive. Even when it means stepping aside. Lise doesn’t understand that, and I get why, but I’m okay with it. I understand.”

She was saying this to make Ivan feel better, he knew, but he only felt worse. He _should_ have stepped in. He _should_ be able to put others before his own fear. He did have a place to go if—when, if he were honest—Viktor cast him out.

 _But Natalya_ , he thought.

 _She’s survived this long without you_ . _She never asked for your help._

Was he even actually helping her? Or was that an excuse?

 _Why are you_ really _there?_

The last thought echoed through Ivan’s mind in Nicholas’s voice.

“Welp.” Julchen pulled her arm away as they neared the bench in front of Laurasia Hall. “Gotta go to Gondwana for Medieval lit. See you later!”

“See you!” Ivan waved as Julchen left, but he was soon sucked back under in the sea of his thoughts.

Eyes on his feet as Ivan made his way towards the iron door that led straight to the stairway, he thought of Natalya, Viktor, and Sigurd. He thought of Viktor’s flock turning up at that open circle and the anger and hurt in Lise’s voice.

 _Why are you_ really _here?_ Again, the thought was in Nicholas’s voice.

 _I don’t know_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lise actually plays the viola, but Ivan wouldn't know the difference, since violas are only a little bigger.


	30. Too Scared to Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hospitalization mentioned briefly when Alfred is reading his Tarot cards.
> 
> Added quotes back to the start of each chapter to procrastinate on actually writing.

_ "Existence is a temporal condition." ~ Matt Dillahunty _

Since when was Imbolc only a week away?!

What was he even going to do?

And the Blue Moon was three days before that!

Alfred wanted to make a spell candle that night to keep on his altar; he’d light it to add an extra boost of intent for spellwork. He wanted to test results, doing a spell once on its own, once with the blue moon candle lit, once by anointing himself with the oil he made during the Supermoon last May, and once with both the oil and candle.

But what was he going to do for Imbolc? Alfred could never think of anything and just did a generic ritual, calling the Watchtowers and sharing wine and cake with the Lord and Lady.

Since Imbolc was one of the four major Sabbats, Patchwork Spirit wasn’t holding an open circle for it.

Alice would take the mantle as High Priestess—inspired by the Reclaiming tradition, the title of High Priestess shifted from person to person—for the Imbolc ritual. Brigid was her patron, afterall.

Alfred had tried approaching Her before, but he’d never gotten a response. But that night, Cerridwen appeared in his dream, in the form of a hawk and chasing him through the sky.

_ “You are too scared to fly,” _ he’d heard Her say in his mind, and he fell.

The air stole his scream, and Cerridwen’s talons dug into his shoulders, yanking him up just in time.

Alfred had landed hard on his knees, in pain but alive.

_ “I only agree to teach those dedicated to learn,” _ Cerridwen had warned, and Alfred sat up, gasping, still feeling stinging pain in his shoulders and throbbing in his knees.

Cerridwen’s shrine had been the first he set up in his room, and Alice had bought Alfred a copy of  _ The Mabinogion _ .

He hadn’t heard Her as much lately, however. Bast and Djehuty tended to be the most vocal, the Ones most likely to get Alfred’s attention.

Alice had warned him that Cerridwen wasn’t a Goddess who would just wait around for him. He’d need to take the initiative, but he hadn’t tried to approach Her when She appeared in his dream, right? But, then, he’d never gotten anything clear from Her since then.

“Earth to Alfred…,” sang Matthew, and Alfred suddenly sat up and stared at the cards in front of him. “I only asked you how your first month of school’s been.”

“Sorry.” Alfred rubbed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I didn’t realize almost a whole month’s passed.”

“I understand,” Matthew replied, picking up the cards to shuffle the deck. “Classes for me made everything seem like it was moving so slow, but then I’d blink, and suddenly it was time for finals.” He laughed and set the deck in front of Alfred. “Knock twice. This deck reacts best to waking it up with the first knock and sealing in your question with the second.”

“Mmhmm.” Alfred thought for a moment before knocking the first time. He kept his question in mind as he knocked the second time and handed the deck back to Matthew. “How come you don’t like hearing the questions?”

“Partly for the client’s sake,” Matthew said after a moment. “Hmm…” He nodded once, as though hearing something Alfred couldn’t. He then laid out seven cards in a wide  _ V _ shape, pointing towards Alfred. “They usually feel the need to amend their questions when having to say it out loud, or they’ll ask one they don’t actually care about, because the real thing on their mind is something they either find embarrassing or too personal to say. Then when the cards start answering their  _ real _ question, they get angry. Another reason is that sometimes it makes me want to read the cards a certain way, instead of letting them guide my reading.”

Matthew blinked at the cards laid out between him and his brother. “Oh.”

“Gee, thanks.” But Alfred at the Ten of Swords and the Sun, which was reversed.

“Okay.” Matthew adjusted his glasses. “Tell me first how you interpret the spread. It’s hard to read for yourself, but if you can see how to move feelings and ego aside and see what’s in front of you, it’ll help you learn how to better read for others.”

Nodding, Alfred pointed at the first card, the High Priestess.

“The past,” he said, then took a breath. “One of the things I was thinking about was Imbolc. I always have trouble knowing what to do for that Sabbat. Compared to the others, I just don’t feel much of a connection. Even compared to Lughnasadh and Mabon.” The other two harvest Sabbats regularly got overshadowed by Samhain. “And thinking about that made me think of when I tried to contact Brigid and got nada, and how I haven’t really heard from Cerridwen lately.”

Matthew nodded, and Alfred kept going:

“I was excited to find a relationship with a deity. I wanted to see what was behind the curtain, find some kind of awakening only I’d be privy to.” He pointed to the next card, which was the Five of Swords, reversed. He stared at it for a while, brow furrowed, and he eventually shook his head. “You know I’m not good reading reversed cards.”

“You can keep all the cards in the same direction when reading for the customers,” said Matthew, “but I want you to at least give them a try while we’re just practicing. Reverses can help enrich the readings, and I personally find that when jumper cards land, it’s best to read them as how they land, not just what they mean when upright.”

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, Alfre sighed. “Fine.” He looked down at the card again. “That card usually means there’s a conflict. And that the querent wants to win at all costs.” He paused, pressing his lips together.

“I’ve given up,” he finally said in a small voice. “I stopped fighting.”

“Is that a good thing?” Matthew prompted, tone soft.

“Not in this case,” Alfred answered, sitting up straighter. “Conflict can help you build strength. I decided it wasn’t worth the fight, or maybe I wasn’t strong enough, or… I don’t know, but I just… stepped back.” He pointed to the third card. “The future. Queen of Cups, reversed of course. And a court card to boot. What is it about court cards that’s so hard for me to read?”

“It’s not uncommon.” Matthew shrugged. “I’ve struggled, too. I have a book dedicated to learning about the court cards, if you’d like to borrow it later. Doing another reading on the blue moon—or Imbolc, if you can’t come up with a specific ritual to do—might help, if you want a deeper understanding of this reading.”

Trying for a smile, Alfred nodded. “Thanks, I’d like that. And a reading’s never a bad idea to do during a Sabbat. I haven’t really done them much lately.”

The last time he did a reading was for Manon, which felt like forever ago.

Matthew nodded again but remained silent as Alfred tried to figure out what the Queen of Cups was trying to tell him. 

“Her being upside-down,” he said slowly after a while, “makes me think of whatever’s inside her cup spilling out.” He looked up, and Matthew motioned for him to continue. “Um… she’s supposed to be compassionate, motherly. But… emotionally manipulative. Maybe not maliciously, just… she says she knows what’s best. She hasn’t reached the king’s stability, I think I’ve heard before. So… reversed, she’s forced to think. She can’t be ruled by emotion in this state, and she has to reevaluate and is telling me to do the same.”

He pointed at the fourth card, which was the lowest point of the  _ V _ . “What to do, and of course it’s another vague card, The Chariot.” He leaned back in his chair again, hands going into the pockets of his bomber jacket. “Willpower. I need to keep control—no…?”

“Hmm?”

Brow furrowing again, Alfred stared at the twin horses. The driver only used one hand to grasp the reins for both. He looked confident, but the way he held onto the reins made it look like if even one of the horses made a sudden move, it would yank the reins right out of the driver’s hand.

“Illusion of control,” Alfred said.

“Interesting,” Matthew commented. “You need to create an illusion for yourself?”

“Yes,” Alfred replied and pointed to the fifth card, which was the Sun, reversed. “Because shit’s about to hit the fan. I  _ can’t _ control that, but I need to find what I  _ do  _ have control of and rein that in.”

“But then is the control really an illusion?”

“It isn’t, but it is, and a necessary one,” Alfred replied. “I can control myself but not my situation, not really. There’s too many factors, and”—he pointed back at the reversed Queen of Cups—“my future will call for contemplation, introspection, looks like, a loss—no, not a loss of emotion, more like a loss of emotional control. I was wrong earlier. Well sorta.” He groaned and propped his elbows on the table as his face went to his hands, fingers pushing his glasses up into his hair. “Ugh… Why is this so hard…?”

Leaning forward, Matthew placed a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “Keep going, and afterwards, you can go back and connect all the cards together. Trees first, then forest.”

Alfred groaned again but nodded and looked up. He adjusted his glasses and took a few deep breaths, holding each in for four seconds before exhaling.

“Fears.” He pointed at the sixth card, the Seven of Swords reversed. So many reversed cards in a reading usually had their own meaning, but Alfred didn’t know off the top of his head. He’d ask later. “I’m scared of the mask I wear slipping, of people seeing that scared, punk kid that got locked up in the mental ward.”

When Matthew reached for Alfred’s hand, he took it but kept his eyes on the card.

“Outcome,” Alfred whispered, staring at the swords sticking out of the man’s back in the final card. “The light always returns, but that doesn’t erase what happened during the night, what happened during those darkest hours.” He blinked hard to keep the tears back as Matthew squeezed his hand. “Worse than people seeing that scared kid is  _ feeling _ like him again.”

“But you still know that there’s light to wake up to,” Matthew reminded him, giving Alfred’s hand another squeeze. “You weren’t sure of that last time.”

Alfred didn’t answer.

“And remember,” Matthew added, “this isn’t a future carved for you into stone. It’s a possibility if you remain on this specific path. The beauty of things is that you can always move.”

Alfred nodded but pulled his hand back. “So…, uh, how’d you read these, then?”

* * *

“They haven’t updated yet?” Alfred asked as he slid into the chair across from Lise.

“You shouldn’t read people’s phones over their shoulders as you walk by,” she huffed. “But no. It’s been almost a year! I’m about to give up hope.” She slapped her phone down onto the table and took a long sip of her coffee. She glared over her cup when Alfred stole a bite of her cinnamon coffee cake but didn’t protest.

“You don’t even watch  _ Once Upon a Time _ anymore.” Alfred licked a bit of the whipped cream from his mocha.

When Tadas had asked how much he wanted, he should have known better than to respond with “Whatever you think a ‘shit ton’ constitutes as.” The tower of whipped cream was starting to fall over, and some had already gotten on his hand.

“Thanks,” he said when Lise handed him a spare spoon and a Wet One.

“I’ve learned to be prepared when Julchen insisted on adopting you,” Lise said, smirking when Alfred objected. “And I wasn’t talking about the  _ Once Upon a Time  _ fic, but I don’t have to keep up with that cluster fuck of a family tree to get my Swan Queen fix.” She ate some of her cake before Alfred could steal another bite. “But, honestly, if Emma turning into the Dark One has as much as”—Lise did a chef’s kiss—“angst—beautiful, heart-wrenching, soul-crushing angst—as this fic, I might just have to binge-watch to catch up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But, no, I’m talking about their Monochrome  _ RWBY _ fic.” She shrugged at Alfred’s confused look. “Blake—the girl with long black hair and a bow that hides her cat ears—and Weiss—the bitchy white-haired rich girl. Winter put them in a pirate AU, and they left off on a cliff-hanger with Weiss diving  _ off the ship _ to save Blake when she was knocked off a beam during a kraken attack! And  _ poof _ !”

xxGeneralWinterxx was a fanfiction writer that Lise followed closely. Alfred had read a few of their  _ Supernatural _ and  _ Avengers  _ one-shots, but he didn’t read fanfiction much and wasn’t invested enough in anyone to follow them.

“Is that what you want to commission? A shaded full-body of Weiss and Blake in full pirate regalia?” Alfred joked, laughing when Lise looked to actually be thinking it over.

“No,” she finally said, reaching for her purse, which sat in the chair next to her. “Not now, anyway. Ask me again when I get my allowance.”

_ I think I see why she loves Weiss _ , thought Alfred.

“Okay.” Lise pulled out her trusty bullet journal. She turned to a section close to the middle, opening a small envelope she’d pasted to the cardstock page. “Julchen decided she wanted to be a June baby, instead of a January one.”

Alfred laughed and nodded. Julchen  _ hated _ winter. Her migraines generally got worse when it was cold (she’d been lucky this winter so far), and there’d been several birthdays where she’d been bedridden. Summer was generally kinder on her health, so Julchen asked for everyone to save up any birthday wishes for her until the second Saturday of June.

Lise unfolded the paper and set it in front of Alfred as he ate the last of his whipped cream. It was a printout of “Lady with an Ermine” by da Vinci.

“Could she be posed like that?” she asked. “But as a Gelfling from  _ The Dark Crystal _ , and I don’t know which of her demons she should be holding, but the other three shouldn’t be left out.”

Alfred laughed and cleaned his hands on the Wet One Lise gave him. “Ronan and Adam in her arms, maybe. And Gansey and Noah on her shoulders, or one of them on her head.”

“Noah likes sitting on her head a lot,” Lise agreed, and Alfred nodded, taking out his sketchbook and turning to a blank page.

He jotted down those ideas and made messy swipes with his ballpoint pen of the pose and where the ferrets could sit.

“You usually use oil paints, right?” Lise asked after another sip of coffee. “Is this enough time?”

“Yeah, totally.” Alfred folded the printout and tucked it into his sketchbook. “And yep. I’ll have to charge more for an oil portrait than an acrylic one. You know what size you’d like it?”

“That’s fine, and an eighteen-by-twenty-four inch painting would fit perfectly in her room,” Lise answered. “She’s been wanting to take down that  _ SnK _ scroll poster but doesn’t want to leave a blank spot on her wall.”

Nodding, Alfred wrote that down. “Okay, you’ll need to send me some clear pictures of her ferrets. I don’t think I have any.”

“I can do that. How many pictures?”

“A few of each, just so I can see them from different angles.”

“Got it.” Lise turned to the front of her bullet journal and jotted down a reminder. “Venmo or PayPal?”

“PayPal, so I can send you an invoice.” Alfred felt weird saying that, but he wanted to try making money from his art, seeing as he hadn’t been able to get the computer lab job. And who knew, maybe it would be something he could keep doing alongside working in therapy. “And I trust you, so you can pay in full afterwards.”

“You sure?” Lise shook her head before Alfred could answer. “I feel better sending you half upfront, at least. Then it’s in my record, and you’re beholden to finish and not procrastinate.”

“Hey!”

Lise only raised her eyebrows, and Alfred rolled his eyes before taking a long sip of his mocha.

“Fine, that’s fine.” Alfred jotted that down, too. “I’ll send you the invoice tonight, then, and upfront is sixty bucks. That sound fair?”

“More than fair,” Lise said, smiling. “So… back to that Monochrome in pirate regalia idea you had….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably keep notes on when everyone's birthday is....


	31. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of self-harm and hospitalization in the first part of the chapter, when Alfred's looking at a picture of one of the submissions to the art department's gallery. There's also mentions of misgendering and deadnaming (though Alfred's deadname will not be mentioned at all throughout the fic, it's only said that he was deadnamed when he recalls his experience in the ER).

_“Look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see, and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious.” ~ Stephen Hawking_

Alfred needed to stop stressing, needed to stop checking his email every few hours. He had his first project, the skeleton of a cartoon character of his choosing, due in a day, and Marianne had given up on reminding him. Instead, she’d simply let him know that she would not be going easy on him when it came to his grades—and that the deadline for submitting his thumbnail for the gallery in May was March, a week after Ostara.

 _“Plenty of time for you to decide,”_ she’d said.

Her not-so-subtle code for _I want you to apply yourself and submit something._

The theme had been announced last Friday, when Marianne placed a stack of guidelines on her desk. He hadn’t grabbed one but then found one right on top of his laptop on his desk. Marianne had played coy, saying maybe it was the same brownie that had stolen his red glasses—which Alfred still couldn’t find, even after leaving out cream and a biscuit—but he knew it was her. Even if she hadn’t already been Alfred’s prime suspect, Marianne was a _terrible_ liar.

This semester’s theme was Self-Portraiture; this had been the theme back in the Fall semester of 2013, according to the art department’s site. A few of the artists had taken the more literal approach of course, some posed like the _Mona Lisa_ or with flora and fauna in the background like in some of Frida Kahlo’s work. A few looked interesting and looked more metaphorical, like one showing the person standing nude behind shattered textured glass while holding up a Venitian mask in front of their face.

Many of the others had taken a more abstract approach. Alfred’s favorite had been the _honorable mention_ piece, a mixed-media shadow box piece done with ink wash, watercolor, silk screen, and collage.

The background was a vibrant mix of colors with white lines to show chrysanthemums, petals seeming to float upwards. This had been done using a silkscreen technique, according to the description,and propped about an inch off the background using foam was the artist’s portrayal, from the waist-up. However, the waist seemed to be breaking off in square-like shapes, cut and shadowed to look like pixels. Her arm going down was broken off at the elbow the same way, like she was dissolving.

Her panicked expression and other arm reaching up, fingers outstretched, backed up that interpretation. The way her hair was lined and shaded, the way it whipped around the girl almost like a character in of itself reminded Alfred of a watercolor artist he liked, Danica Sills.

The girl was also nude, open cuts running up and down her arms. Smoke, coiling and in almost the same style as her hair, rose out of the cuts running down her disappearing arm. Out of the cuts along her outstretched arm, flowers bloomed. The flowers were made using bits of torn pages from what looked like magazines, words hidden in several of the flowers. Alfred had to zoom in to see them: _alone_ , _sin_ , _lazy_ , _idiot_ , _hate_ , and _wicked._

Alfred found himself running a hand down his thigh at some of the words, words he’d carved into his own flesh once upon a time. He swore he could feel the largest and deepest of the words, _lazy_ , burning into him. He had to push away from his desk as he cried, biting on his lip hard enough to taste blood, to keep his moms from hearing him.

Alice had been the one to find him, had been the one who’d been suspicious, finding that broken razor, the blades held in place by the translucent guard. Alfred hadn’t shaved his legs in over a year back then; his moms had never made him feel like he needed to conform to rituals or ideals labeled as feminine. So when Alice spotted the razor, rolled up in a face towel in the basket atop the toilet, she’d been sure.

Alfred had overheard them talking about it. Had heard the words _self-injury_ and _depression_ and _therapist_. He’d gone numb. Then, he’d heard Marianne choke back a sob, heard her blame herself, for pushing him too hard, for being too harsh in her critiques when she helped him with his growing portfolio.

He must have blacked out then. It had happened before; he’d dissociate and blink and suddenly be somewhere quiet, a blade clutched between his thumb and index finger and blood running down his thigh.

Alice had taken him to the ER that night, and the psychologist had insisted on in-patient treatment. Alfred hadn’t had the energy to beg to go home, to assure his moms he hadn’t meant to cut so deep. His soul took too many hits, each time he was misgendered and deadnamed by the nurses and psychiatrist—until the psychiatrist grudgingly relented at Alice’s insistence and spat out _he_ and _him_ and _Alfred_ like Alice had been holding her at gunpoint.

Probably the only good thing to come out of it was ending up with Eva as a roommate.

The worst part was getting stuck with a diagnosis he was certain he didn’t have, the shrink using Alfred’s gender as “proof” of his _unstable sense of identity_.

Three years, five shrinks, and another in-patient visit later when number four claimed Alfred was violent, and Marianne was given the name of a psychotherapist suggested by Romano, who had just earned tenure that year.

Finally, Alfred got to talk to someone who wasn’t transphobic, wasn’t homophobic, didn’t tell him to pray to a transphobic and homophobic god to help him through his troubles. He was told he had borderline tendencies but didn’t have the disorder. He said Alfred would still benefit from DBT and used it to work with him.

He’d been right. Alfred only needed to check in once a month now instead of every week, and the sessions were less structured, more like the talk therapy usually shown on shows and movies. He didn’t even need to take the generic-brand Lexapro anymore.

 _“What, you don’t want to be my dealer anymore?”_ Alfred had joked when Dr. Djimou first brought it up.

The tall man, who always insisted on wearing one of those old, tweed jackets, had laughed, assuring Alfred he could always start prescribing them to him again if they were needed.

The only downside to having Dr. Djimou as a therapist was not being able to take his classes.

Even now, as Alfred’s hand rested over _LAZY_ on his thigh, as he stared at the honorable mention until his laptop’s screen dimmed and went black. He turned his head and watched his reflection in one of the decorative mirrors Alice had bought at a flea market in Pass Christian. The three circular mirrors, set into sun-like rays scratched to look like tarnished gold, hung above Alfred’s unmade bed, and he blinked slowly as he looked down at the gallery guidelines.

 _None of my shit is good enough_ , Alfred thought.

“I’m not one of the judges,” he argued, reaching for his sketchbook.

* * *

Natalya had seen that look before; she used to see it every time she looked in the mirror. Sometimes the look would return—after getting a bad grade, after being called _Bible thumper bitch_ or _freak_ , after each hint her dad drops to let her know that he’s always watching.

She didn’t know why no one else saw it.

Or maybe they did and didn’t care.

No one cared about Valeriu, all because of his mom.

It had taken weeks of talking to her dad in private about the matter, little snippets here and there laced with well-chosen verses and quotes from his sermons. Reminding Viktor that Valeriu was not complicit in his parents’ divorce, reminding him that Valeriu was suffering from his mother’s sin and needed the church more than ever.

Natalya had worried it wouldn’t work, not when inheritable sin was part of their doctrine, but Viktor had relented, following Natalya’s lead and turning Valeriu’s salvation as a directive he was giving his daughter.

The youth group leader clapped, jolting Natalya out of her thoughts. She closed her Bible and stood up as the others scattered to different rooms. Everyone except Valeriu.

He sat, still staring at his open Bible, but Natalya knew he wasn’t reading a word of it.

“You coming, Natalya?” Ivan asked, dragging her attention away from the skinny brunette.

Ivan was already on his feet, Sigurd giving him a quick side-eye before leaving the room with Monika and Elias.

“Go without me,” Natalya told him.

Ivan hesitated but left after a nod. He’d be fine. While he still couldn’t tell anyone the difference between the Philistines and Moabites (though, few in the church could), but at least he knew now who Pontius Pilate and the Samaritans were. He’d started reading Luke for his college class. Natalya hadn’t read any of his blog posts, but Ivan had assured her that he kept fake files full of Viktor-approved garbage, whereas the real files were hidden and protected under password—and then deleted soon as he copied and pasted the essays onto his blog.

Natalya hoped he didn’t slip up. If caught, she knew there’d be yelling, accusations, even threats. Viktor would be livid if he ever learned an atheist was living under his roof, and Natalya had been simmering on the stovetop for so long that she knew that if things came to that, she’d boil over. She’d admit she’s Wiccan, have been practicing witchcraft in the house after her parents had fallen asleep.

She’d admit that she felt more love from the Goddess than she _ever_ had from the hateful god her dad cherry-picked from this church’s holy book.

“Mind if I join you?” Natalya asked softly. She avoided the surprised looks she got from the rest of the people leaving the room.

Valeriu noticed the looks, though, his thin lips pinched and russet eyes pained. He nodded, though, probably not wanting to say “No” to the deacon’s daughter.

 _Whatever gets my foot in the door_ , Natalya told herself, smoothing her long, navy skirt as she sat down. “Should we start with talking about the Psalm?”

“Um, sure.” Valeriu’s voice was small, his eyes downcast.

Natalya did most of the talking at first, and while this was supposed to be time for quiet reflection, the youth leader allowed it when he passed by while checking on everyone. Most likely, Viktor had said something to him about this.

“I don’t see you talk to Alecu at school anymore,” Natalya said after a while.

Valeriu was quiet for a while, eyes still glued to his Bible. After a while, though, he replied, “My mom said to stop talking to him when his family started going to that church in Gulfport.”

He didn’t have to say which one. The Unitarian Universalist church was known here as _the heathen church_ or _the apostates’ church_. Some went as far as to say the pastors there were agents of Satan, turning people from the True Word with “a lukewarm rewrite of God’s Word” as Viktor once groused during dinner.

“Do you miss him?” Natalya asked, and the following stretch silence was longer.

“Yes,” Valeriu finally said, then tensed, as though awaiting a reprimand.

“I do, too,” Natalya said instead, and Valeriu finally looked up, though now Natalya looked at her Bible.

She was afraid to meet Valeriu’s eyes, afraid to see _that look_ still there, or, worse, suspicion. She hated how her relation to the deacon made her a pariah. One on a pedestal, sure, but a pariah all the same, people only looking her way when they hoped they may see her fall. They just might, if Natalya has to keep up this charade much longer. Ivan keeps reminding her that it’s just until she turns eighteen, and then she can leave, her parents have zero legal right to keep her here.

But she didn’t know if she could make it.

And at the same time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to leave. She knew that if she did, her dad would want nothing to do with her anymore, and even if Anya did, she would never protest Viktor’s decision. His word was law and final. Natalya wasn’t sure if she could handle that.

Her stomach twisted at her indecision, and her chest ached deeply. Her fingers twitched as her eyes burned, but she blinked hard, keeping them shut for a moment until she was sure no tears would spill over her cheeks, flushed from the cold.

Damn heater was always breaking. She tried to focus on that, instead.

“He was always so happy,” Natalya continued, ignoring the urge rising, the urge that would soon take over her mind, pushing all other thoughts back until Natalya finally gave in. “Sunday classes feel so much more somber without him around.”

Valeriu smiled, albeit briefly, but it was enough to push back on the urge, even slightly. This was about him, not her, she tried to remind herself.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

His responses remained to one or two words, but he was talking, connecting. That was what mattered.

Quiet reflection was going to end, soon, though. Anya was probably already waiting in the sanctuary for them.

“Do you want to join us for dinner?” Natalya asked Valeriu. “My mom, brother, and I are going out to Mrs. Elfie’s pizza place, since my dad has to stay in his office late.”

Valeriu had looked ready to say “No” until Natalya mentioned Viktor wouldn’t be there, and he considered.

“Her niece takes over cooking for dinners,” Natalya said, and Valeriu chuckled, the sound making Natalya smile.

“Um, sure,” he said, and their eyes finally met. “Thanks.”

The urge became little more than a whisper in the back of Natalya’s mind as she felt triumph. “No problem.”


End file.
